


Before Dusk

by paperstorms



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: All canon in tact, Angst, Character Funeral, Climbing Class, Comfort, Conspiracies, Depression, F/M, Guns, Hurt, I just want everyone to be happy but THEY ARE NOT, Love, M/M, Monsters, Multi, Mysterious government agencies, Original Characters that I am going to give you feelings about, PTSD, Post-Game(s), Sam and Chris hunting monsters, Spoilers, Suggested Alcoholism, Wendigo!Josh, more to be added as chapters go on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperstorms/pseuds/paperstorms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike finds himself held accountable for the events on Blackwood mountain, at the mercy of the his friend's statements to the police, and the accusing fingers of the grieving Washington family. Their group is broken, but everyone handles pain differently. Sam, for one, is not going to sit back knowing there are monsters out there in the world, and she's dragging Chris down with her.</p><p>It's probably for the best, because they're going to need to be ready for the oncoming storm when they find out Josh is still out there.</p><p>The fallout of a nightmare can be even worse than being it.</p><p>(Ending scenario at the top of the first chapter.)</p><p>UPDATE: Chapter 7 is underway, 08/08/16. Sorry for the ridiculous wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Planned chapters: 258
> 
> Ending scenario:  
> Mike touches the bear trap, loses the machete instead of his fingers. Didn’t get Jessica out of her clothes. Chris chooses Ashley, puts the gun down. Sam doesn’t get caught. Ashley stabs Josh with the scissors. Wendigo!Josh. ‘Everyone Lives’, but you know. No one really makes it out in one piece.

\- May 2015 -  
Three Months After Dawn

 

A deafening silence has swallowed the dark suburban street, the invasive noise of tyres crunching on tarmac the only sound to be heard. An icy dew is already starting to form on the ground, fogging up the windows of the queue of motionless cars lining the neighborhood. The wheels of Mike’s truck roll to a squeaky halt at the curb, and cutting the rumbling engine, he takes a moment to sit in the quiet and watch the moths flutter around the streetlight, mesmerized by it’s glow.

He’s not been back for a few nights, and he can feel the doubt creeping up his neck like a ghostly hand wrapping it’s fingers around his skin. He pulls up the collar of his jacket and shivers. It’s best to get these things over with.

Sliding out of the vehicle, Mike’s breath fogs in the night air. It’s colder than he’s used to, unusual for California, and he’s tempted to take it as a sign he’s making the right decision. Nothing’s been enough to change his mind yet, not that he’s given anyone a chance to talk him out of what’s he’s planning. After everything that happened on Blackwood Mountain, and everything else since, Mike’s ready to get the hell out of dodge.

The porch light flickers into life as he approaches his door and he fumbles to a stop. As if he needed another reason to go. Thick red letters violate his front step, taunting him, and he wonders if his father has noticed yet. Sighing in defeat, he kneels down and tries to scrub it away, but the paint is dry.

He’s not guilty, he reminds himself as he pulls the doormat over the graffiti. Nothing they did up on that mountain was their fault.

Not that a single soul believed a word out of their mouths.

None of them had spoken, at least not to him, since the investigation ended. Perhaps it was for the best; he didn’t imagine he would have an easy time looking Emily in the eye again after what he’d done, although he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to give her a piece of his mind regarding what she told the cops. It hadn’t helped his case, to put it lightly. The second they’d touched down on safe, solid ground, Bob Washington was looking for someone to point the finger at.

As far as Mike knew, the others were with their families. At least it meant they were safe. He’d not tried to contact them, save Sam, but he’d not been able to get through to her for more than three weeks and figured she needed space. He wanted another chance to thank her for saving him, and he would have liked to say goodbye. Can’t win them all, he supposed.

Turning his key in the lock, Mike pushes the door open as quietly as he can. Nothing good would come of waking his father at this time of night. The house is as shadowy and silent as the street outside. He can hear himself exhale as he scans the room.

A pair of eyes glint in the darkness, locking on to him from the other end of the dark hallway. A low growl reverberates through the room. Mike’s breath catches in his throat.

“Shhh… shhh,” he whispers, crouching to ground level. He beckons with his hands. “Come ‘ere, Shepherd.”

The scruffy dog trots towards him, into the pool of light cast from the street lamp outside. The Alsatian nudges Mike’s face and he sinks his hands into the dog’s fur, closing his eyes. A rough tongue sweeps across his cheek and he chuckles quietly. “Good boy.”

A lump forms in his throat as he leads the dog further inside and closes the door as carefully as he opened it. He’s lived in this house for more than a decade and to leave all of that behind is going to leave a serious dent in his heart.

He shakes it off. Heads upstairs towards his room, freezing as he finds his father’s bedroom door open.

False alarm. The light is on, but the bottle on his bedside is empty and he’s snoring soundly. Continuing on to his own room, he flips on the light and takes a long hard look at ten by twelve foot space that has been his sanctuary since he was eleven years old. It’s still tidy, untouched as he always leaves it. Looks like a guest room, save a few personal effects he’s forgotten to put away and a couple of college textbooks he’s not had the courage to return yet. With the amount of screen time they’ve all had on the national news, Mike can’t help but shiver at the thought of facing his classmates and lecturers with all their questions and judging looks.

The waste paper basket is overflowing, just as he left it. Even if his father had bothered tidying Mike doubts he would have come in here. The whole room is blander than it used to be. Blue tack marks stain the cream walls; he ripped down all his pictures and posters the same night he got back from Blackwood. Couldn’t look at those smiling faces. All of that belonged to the person he used to be.

A nudge on his thigh from the dog as it pushes into the room brings him back to the present. Digging out a camping rucksack from under his bed, Mike starts to pack, stuffing everything he doesn’t want to leave behind into the bag. Mainly clothes, shoes. Books, too. And from his desk drawer, the last photographs he has of all his friends whilst they were still happy. The top picture catches his eye and he grimaces. All ten of them are crowded together around the fireplace at the lodge; the year before the twins disappeared. They look so young. They’re laughing, no one looking at the camera. It was a timed photo and Josh has barely made it back into the frame, crashing into Chris and Sam in an attempt to get in the shot.

They got a better shot, but this was always Mike’s favourite. He fights the urge to scrunch it up and toss it away; instead forcing himself to look at their smiling faces.

Emily and Jess. Before the tension. Their arms are linked, the best of friends. Now Jess keeps calling, and he doesn’t have the courage to pick up the phone. She spent three weeks in hospital after the injuries she’d sustained and he can’t bring himself to say hello.

_All his fault._

Matt’s got a hand on his shoulder. God, Matt used to look up to him in school. Not any more, not since Emily blabbed about what he’d done.

Sam’s head is thrown back, mouth open with pure joy and laughter. He hasn’t seen that look on her face since they got out. He remembers the dead look in her eyes as the helicopter lifted them away from the blaze. She shouldn’t have seen what they’d seen down in those mines. She shouldn’t have been looking for him.

_All his fault._

The twins - oh god - his chest ached with regret as he admired them. Before Beth cut her hair, indistinguishable from each other if it were not for Hannah’s glasses. They’re so happy, so innocent.

Chris and Ashley deserve each other. Chris deserved better than a friend like Mike, aggressive and impulsive and ready to blow. If Mike hadn’t dragged Josh up to the shed, if he hadn’t encouraged Chris to tie him up, to hit him, perhaps they could have all made it out…

_All his fault._

Josh is a complete blur, but the goofy grin on his face is as clear as day. Mike realizes there’s only four days until Josh’s 21st birthday.

_Water filling up his lungs, spiny fingers ripping into his thigh as they drag him further under. Mike kicks desperately, trying to find the surface, to escape the horrible creature’s death grip before it can drown him or tear him in two. Three kicks, arms flailing, and then suddenly…_

_He’s free. Oh god - he doesn’t understand why, but he doesn’t stop to find out. He struggles away, hands feeling for anything solid. Palms slamming against cold rock, he surfaces, spluttering and gasping for air and it’s all he can do not to scream from the pain in his mutilated fingers. He swallows it.  
Josh, where’s Josh? Pressed against the rock, he chances a glance around; it’s dark without the light of the torch but he can make out the creature’s shape and as his head stops spinning he realizes Josh is screaming back at it as it screeches in his face._

_“Hannah..!”_

_The spidery creature lifts Josh into the air and Mike panics, looks around, desperately seeking a solution. He’s frozen to the spot; he’s never frozen to the spot. His mind falls blank._

_And suddenly, he’s alone. The screaming has stopped; the sound of claws on the cave walls has passed too far away for him to hear._

_Josh is dead. He must be. There’s no way he’s made it._

_The torch, on the floor of the flooded cave, blinks out of existence and everything is pitch black. He squeezes his eyes tight shut and pushes on from the safety of the rock. He’s got to keep moving._

Shepherd nuzzles his shoulder, pulling Mike out of the memory. He shakes himself and silently blesses the dog for always needing him, giving him a pat; the lump in his throat is threatening to come back. Tucking the photograph carefully inside the rucksack, he tidies the room one last time.

He wants to hurry, but he feels bad as he passes his father’s bedroom again. Dropping the pack on the floor, Mike steps inside. Tiptoeing - although he doubts the man will wake up after the drinking he’s done - he steps up to the bed and gently tucks the covers around his father.

They’ve never gotten along, bad blood and matching tempers coming between them for as long as he can remember, but the man doesn’t deserve what he’s done to himself.

“Goodbye, dad.”

Sounds alien from his lips, even as a whisper. Mike sniffs, turns out the light. That’s enough, he thinks.

In the garage, he grabs the last few essentials he knows he’s going to need. Storm lantern, sleeping bag. Camping stove, fishing net, dry food, water purifier. For the first time in his life, he thanks the heaven’s his father is a nut and keeps his garage well stocked for emergencies, or his plans would be far more expensive. Mike has never been a religious person, but after Blackwood he’s not sure he’s the right person to dictate what exists and what doesn’t. After some deliberation, he grabs a tactical knife, the kind his father uses for gutting game, and a pack of flares.

There’s one more thing.

Mike glances at his father’s steel gun locker hesitantly; it instantly feels like a bad idea, but he’s not confident he can feel safe without one on him. He decides it’s down to the combination lock; if he can work it out in five tries, he’ll take one. He’s not breaking in.

His first attempt is his father’s birthday - an obvious choice - and then his credit card pin, just to be sure. Two down, no success. Then, his grandfather’s birthday, a combination of the two, and finally his father’s employee number down at the security firm. Five attempts, no success. Shaking the idea off, he jams the new items into his rucksack and hits the garage light on his way out. 

Five steps out the door, he changes his mind. Tells himself to think about it. Haphazard guesses weren’t going to get him anywhere. With a sigh of resignation, he returns to the gun locker and inspects the lock again.

Looking at it carefully, he can see a couple of the numbers are more worn than the others, four of them quite prominently. He’s not sure how many possible combinations of 1690 there are, but he knows it’s likely to be something significant at least. He tries 1960, just in case the year meant anything to his father.

When it strikes him, Mike doesn’t really believe he’s figured it out, but he tries it anyway. 0196 - his month and year of birth. Like his father would use something like that. He still doesn’t even really believe it when the electronic lock whirrs and clicks open. A pang of regret ripples through his chest.

All he takes is a revolver and a box of bullets. He’s tempted by the rifle, but there’s no way he can carry that around subtly and he’s not got a hunting license anyway.

_Goodbye, dad._

He closes the locker securely and hurries out, knowing it’s going to get light before he leaves at this rate.

Shepherd stands between him and the front door.

“Come on, boy,” he murmurs, silently begging the dog not to start making noise now. He could have done this in the day, when his father was at work, but he can’t stand the neighbours looks; their faces and whispers, saying how he used to be 'such a nice boy’, how it’s 'such a shame what happened to those kids’. The curtain twitching, and prying conversations in the street. They may as well be pelting him with rotten fruit.

The dog doesn’t move, so Mike ends up edging towards him, two keen black eyes watching him expectantly. Shepherd whines, nudging him again as he tries to pass.

“It’s not time for a walk, Shep,” he groans, eyeing the leash hanging by the front door. “The old man will walk you tomorrow.”

Another whine. Mike’s heart melts a little; he makes a rash decision, grabbing the leash. The dog will be better off with him anyway.

Starting the engine of his truck again, he gives the old house one last look. He doesn’t know when he’ll be coming back, but it’s not going to be soon. Goodbye Torrance, goodbye Los Angeles. Perhaps even California. He wants to get as far away as possible.

Wherever the road takes him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout of a nightmare can be even worse than being it. Of the seven survivors, none of them really know how to cope with the knowledge of what’s out there in the world - especially when it turns out the eighth is still out there somewhere too. (Takes place post-game)
> 
> Planned chapters: 258
> 
> Ending scenario:  
> Mike touches the bear trap, loses the machete instead of his fingers. Didn’t get Jessica out of her clothes. Chris chooses Ashley, puts the gun down. Sam doesn’t get caught. Ashley stabs Josh with the scissors. Wendigo!Josh. ‘Everyone Lives’, but you know. No one really makes it out in one piece.

\- March 2015 - One Month After Dawn -

"That's when Felicity said to me, 'sis, I've got to be honest with you. You look terrible. Your hair is a mess, your eyebrows look like they haven't seen a tweezer in months and there's something on your leg that really, really looks like shit'."

Resting on his elbows, Chris leans further across the table to listen to his older sister; he loves her stories, because they're so honest. She doesn't care much what anyone thinks of her, and her words are so alive, it's hard not to be cheered up just listening to her.

Besides, it's nice just to experience something normal after everything that happened. There's a storm at the back of his mind, but he's holding it back. He wants his family to know that he's coping.

He can't say the same for Ashley. She's sat beside him at the dinner table, but she might as well be up on that mountain still. Her hazel eyes are fixed absently on the wall in front of her, and she's been pushing her food around her plate for ages without taking a bite. He wants to ask, but his mom gets there first.

"Ashley, dear? Is everything alright?"

This is the first time he's brought her over as his girlfriend. His family have met her plenty of times whilst they've studied together, but now he's anxious, when he shouldn't be anxious. At least there's only been minor teasing from his sisters.

Blinking herself back to reality, Ashley's mouth falls open a little. "Oh? I'm... fine." A polite smile graces her face. "Sorry, Val. It's really good, I promise. Thank you. I'm just not particularly hungry."

"You should eat," Chris says softly, although only because he feels like it's the correct thing to suggest. He doesn't much feel like eating either. "You haven't had anything today."

Ever understanding, Chris' mom waves a dismissive hand at him. "That's fine, sweetheart. There's more in the fridge if you feel like it later."

Ashley offers a gracious smile to the older woman. She's always liked Chris' family; how close they are, how they seem to tell each other everything. They've been warm and welcoming from the day they met her, when Chris brought her over with Josh and Sam for a study group. She's sad just having that day cross her mind, the memory vivid with the smell of fresh baking spilling from the homely kitchen that's just one door from where she's sat now, and the huge, unexpected embrace Chris' mother gave each of them as they all stood nervously in the hallway.

She can't eat, because there's a bitterness in her mouth that tastes like she's swallowing tears she's trying not to cry. Ashley's felt like this for weeks, she just can't shake it - under the table, she reaches for Chris' hand and grips it tight as her fingers find his.

He squeezes back, making as much polite conversation with his relatives as he needs to before they can justify getting up. At least, she thinks, he seems to be enjoying himself.

Sat on the bed together later in the evening, Chris has his arms around Ashley. She's curled up like a child in his lap, her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, and she hasn't spoken for at least ten minutes. Chris can't deny, he's worried about her. They should be talking about what happened. He wants to.

Every time he brings up that night, she freezes up. Tells him she doesn't know what to say, asks if they can talk about it later.

He gets it.

But Chris wants to talk, and he doesn't know who else will listen. No one else went through what they did. No one even believes them.

"Do you want to go to sleep, angel?" He murmurs, running his fingers through her hair. Most of Ashley's bruises have faded, but there's still a spatter lingering purple around her eye, which she's made a valiant effort to cover with make up. His face has recovered too, but it's still sensitive to the touch.

Ashley shifts a little in his embrace, and for a moment, he thinks she already has. He'd sit up all night if it meant she got enough rest - he can't sleep through his nightmares anyway.

"The first hearing is tomorrow," she murmurs. "Do you think we should be there?"

He looks down and finds her big brown eyes staring back up at him. Chris smiles encouragingly. "The cops told us it'd be better if we weren't, remember?"

"I know," she says, nuzzling into his neck. He knows it's more for her own comfort than anything. Despite how close they've become, the investigation, the reporters, and just trying to rebuild their lives has ensured they've had no time for romance. "I just feel like we should be there."

Chris doesn't know what to say. He agrees, but he feels like they'd just be in the way; he wants to trust the police on this. The fact they'd let him, Ashley and Sam off without trial, he was sure was down to their long established friendship Washington family. Their stories about monsters in the mountains had not been met kindly and he couldn't say as much for the others. Fingers were pointing and rumours were flying everywhere.

"I'll sleep on it," Ashley says decisively, pulling herself away from him. She pecks his lips and gets up, starting to strip down to her t-shirt and underwear to go to bed. Chris watches her, feeling numb. He wishes he could feel some of the passion he did when he confessed his feelings up on the mountain, but nothing's come.

Still, when she goes to sleep beside him, he holds her close, his chest pressed to her back. Chris doesn't want to let go of her for a second.

Nor does he want to sleep.

_"Ashley! I won't let you die!"_

Every time he closes his eyes, the nightmares creep into his mind.

His phone starts to vibrate violently on the nightstand, the flashing screen illuminating the whole room. His head jerks around at the sound, and Chris realizes he must have been dropping off. Stretching for it, trying not to wake Ashley, he knocks his glasses off the nightstand. He scowls, squinting at the screen.

Sam. He can only tell because he recognizes her shape in the dumb picture that pops up behind her name.

"Hey," he mumbles tiredly. There's silence on the other end for a long moment. "Hello?"

Then, there's shouting.

"This is bullshit, Chris," Sam barks down the line suddenly. "We made a pact! We said we'd all stick together and for some shitty reason I can't understand, Mike is going on trial tomorrow because Emily can't keep her fat mouth shut! She knows what happened up on that mountain. She knows!"

A little taken aback, Chris stares up at the ceiling silently. "I know it's shitty, but it's done." She's quiet for a while, and Chris feels responsible for making sure she's okay. "Everything's been pretty shitty so far Sammy, let's be honest. I'm just grateful to be alive."

"Mmm," Sam mumbles in response, and the line crackles a little. Chris sighs, glancing over to Ashley and very gently edging his arm out from under her head. Ashley makes a soft noise and rolls onto her back. Smiling at her petite sleeping form, Chris lingers for just a moment before swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up.

"There's something on your mind," he states. "I want to hear."

Chris wishes he could tell what Sam is thinking, because her silences are cutting. "No, you don't," she says eventually. "You really don't."

He laughs weakly. "Tough, because you're going to tell me anyway, right? I'm not convinced you'd call me at half past midnight for no reason."

It's not been long at all; Chris can still remember the emptiness he saw in Sam's eyes when they sat waiting for hours in the Calgary sheriff's headquarters, wrapped up in blankets like it was supposed to shelter them somehow from the horrors they'd all seen the night before. They were called in one by one to talk, and kept apart from each other for a painfully long time after they'd spoken. He'd watched Mike through the glass of the corridor's partition wall whilst he, Sam and Ashley waited for their interview slots; Chris had never seen his friend so desperately distraught, not once in nearly two decades, and he'd seen Mike through some of the worst moments of his life. The sheriff was relentless with them, and he must have seen Mike interviewed five or six times before he was called in. As a deputy beckoned him over to the door, he'd looked to Sam, hopelessly wishing she might shoot him one of her encouraging smiles, a thumbs up, but the sight he was met with hurts his chest to think about even weeks later. Sam was present in body only, a shell of the person he knew so well. He was scared to ask then. But he regretted it. Whatever Sam had to say now, he was ready to hear it.

"Sam?"

A sharp breath at the other end. "Okay, but you're not going to like it. Are you alone?"

\---

Sergeant Lawrence Fisher was a military man for a long time, his service history coming up on three decades before he'd taken the senior role at Langley five years ago, and he'd been to military academies since he was a child. He's seen a lot of terrible things in his time; limbs torn from their sockets in Iraq, the faces of his comrades smashed on the stone floors of a temple in Afghanistan. Child soldiers with their skulls blown open in Libya. The face of the devil, he swears, in the fumes of a burning village in the Congo.

Looking in the restroom mirror of the FISCO offices' visitor wing, he can see all the horrors of his career written in the lines on his face. He traces his fingers along them, stretching his dark skin taut to try and capture a hint of the youthful man he used to be. Gingerly, he pulls at a grey in his tight black curls and his thick lips twist into a deep frown as he stares at the man in the mirror he doesn't recognize.

When Fisher was assigned to FISCO, he was keen to get away from Virginia, away from Langley and his failing marriage. Of all the underground projects he'd been a part of, this was by far the most fascinating, and he didn't believe there was a sight on Earth that could shock him more than what haunted his dreams at night. But today he is not in the mood for it. He's meeting a gaggle of scientists who've flown in from Alberta for the occasion. Apparently their 'specialist' knowledge and theoretical research would be of benefit to his work. Lawrence rarely finds that to be the case. With a heavy-hearted sigh, he splashes a little water on his tired face and leaves the bathroom.

"Larry!"

The voice catches him like a hook the second he steps out of the door. He grumbles at the lack of respect. "What have I told you about calling me that, Thomas?"

He shoots back a stern look of warning which, as ever, seems to pass over the young man's head. The lanky redheaded technician smiles lop-sidedly in response, grateful to be remembered by name. "They're here, sarge. Over there."

Thomas points across the lobby to a handful of men in shirts and ties, looking hopefully towards every passer-by.

"How long have they been waiting there?"

"Uh," the redhead mumbles. "I don't know, really. Sandra buzzed me ten minutes ago, said to look for you."

Cursing their idle receptionist, Fisher marches towards the men to introduce himself. He notes how relieved they appear to be as he approaches with Thomas in tow.

"Gentlemen, so sorry to keep you waiting," he says, holding his hand out to each of them in turn and shaking firmly. "Sergeant Fisher, I'm running this operation whilst the good General is away. I trust you're ready to get to it quickly?"

Perhaps, he thought, he could get this through with before lunch.

"Good to meet you, Sergeant," one of the men replies, but he's worrying at his lip and Fisher finds it annoying. He raises an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to go on. "I am, uh... Dr. Neilson. I'm just getting a little concerned about the special 'cargo' we've got out in the truck."

Fisher eyes Thomas venomously, perhaps unwarranted, as the kid doesn't seem to know what they're talking about either. "What cargo?"

"Well, sir," Neilson lowers his voice, adjusting his glasses as he leans closer. Thomas and Fisher find themselves following in the motion. "It's a live specimen, Sergeant. I was told you'd been briefed."

 

The storage crate is inside an armored vehicle. It takes six of them to move it to the electric lift attached to the back; Fisher doesn't know if he's more excited or nervous about the way it shakes slightly, like it's containing something too big for it's feeble wooden structure. As he gets closer, he can hear a low, throaty growl from the inside.

"What the hell is in that thing?"

Dr. Neilson stands beside him with a clipboard, warily watching the men at work. "We're not really sure. We've got some ideas, but we were hoping you could tell us. This is more a FISCO subject than a CIA one."

As they wheel the shaking crate down to the service elevator, Fisher can't help but wonder what he's gotten himself in for.

\---

"Wait, wait. Let me recap," Chris says under his breath, pacing back and forth by his bedroom window. He pauses, stops to look out at the night sky. "What you're saying to me is that you want to go back out there?"

"It's not like that," Sam sighs down the phone. "I just mean-"

"No," Chris interrupts, his voice resolute. He leans against the wall, shoulders sagging. "Sam, it took everything we had just to get out of there alive. Josh - Josh is dead, Sammy. Whatever monsters are out there, I want you far away from them. I can't lose another friend."

He's taken aback by how dark Sam's laugh sounds at the other end of the receiver. "I know it sounds ridiculous. But the truth is, it didn't take everything I had. That's what I've started to realize. I was strong enough for what we went through and now I just can't stop... thinking about it. Thinking about how no one believes us. Thinking about how we saw something so... terrible, yes, but incredible. Like... what else don't people believe in, Chris?"

Groaning, Chris slides himself down the wall until he's sat on the floor. He hugs his knees close to his chest, resting his chin on them and watching Ashley sleeping peacefully. He was praying for someone to speak with about this, but faced with it, he realizes he how terrified he truly is.

"I _know_ ," he says in a hushed voice, and his words crack as he speaks. "But I don't know if I have it in me to do anything about it. I just... just want to live a normal life, Sam."

She tutts playfully. Chris wonders if she's taken any of the help sessions they've all been offered. She sounds too comfortable. "I don't believe you, but fine. I'm not asking you to come with me."

"Why then?" He stresses, a little loudly, and Ashley whines slightly, twisting in the sheets. Waiting for her to still again, Chris continues in a hushed whisper. "Why tell me?"

"Because," Sam chuckles, and Chris is suddenly aware of the slow inhales and exhales of her controlled breathing, and he realizes he's wrong; she's not comfortable at all. She's utterly terrified. "I want someone to know where I'm going and... I want someone I can talk to about what I find. Someone who can help me prepare for what's out there."

Another long pause hangs in the air between them.

"Like, you're Lara Croft, and you want me to be your Alistair."

"I have no idea what you just said," Sam chuckles light-heartedly. "But it sounds like you're getting the gist of it."

With his eyes lingering on the small girl sleeping in his bed, Chris feels his indecision shrinking away. As long as he can protect Ashley, he's happy. But he knows Sam is right. How are they expected to return to their lives, like nothing happened? His parent's are giving him all the time in the world, but he knows they're waiting patiently for the day he says he's ready to head back to Stanford. He doesn't know how to find the words to tell them that learning to code smartphone apps doesn't feel that important anymore.

"Alright," he agrees at last. "But there's conditions. Like, please try to tell the others. I won't say a thing, it's not my place but... just try. And I want you to check in with me from time to time. Like, physically. So I can check you're alright. Then, whatever you need, I'm your man."

Sam laughs again, but this time it's softer, genuine joy in her voice. "You're getting ahead of yourself. You're way into this, aren't you?"

"A little."

"Well tone it down, okay? I'm still staying at my dad's. And I was going to start tomorrow, at the library. Research. You can join me if you want."

Chris can't help smiling, hearing her sound so happy again. He nods, taking a few seconds to realize she can't see him. "Sure. Yep. It's a date. I mean, not a date, but..."

"See you tomorrow, Chris," she cuts him off before he hurts himself trying. "The old library by the school, 1 o'clock okay?"

"Deal."

"Get some sleep, you nerd."

The line crackles and dies, and Chris is left slumped on the floor by his window, staring at the bed. He's buzzing with  
exhilaration at the idea, but as the light of his phone dies off, and he once again is left in the dark with nothing but his thoughts for company, a sense of dread starts to set in again.

He really doesn't want to go to sleep.

\---

Forty-five minutes later, the six of them have wrestled the oversized crate all the way down to the FISCO building basement. At the bottom, Thomas fetches them a trolley meant for moving machinery, and they're able to wheel the cargo the rest of the way.

Finally, they deposit the crate into a holding cell in the underground facility. Fisher notes the unnatural noises resonating from the inside.

"Is this going to hold..?" Neilson asks suspiciously. Fisher is unhappy with the level of questions these men are asking him, considering he thought they'd come here to educate him. He shrugs, face twisted with growing anger. He narrows his eyes, surveying the cell.

"It's meant for big cat specimens," Thomas says, matter-of-factly. "A lion can hit it's prey with the force of a small car if needs be. Should hold... something equivalent."

Neilson rolls his shoulders, tapping his clipboard anxiously. "Alright. Open it."

Two of the men pry one of the panels loose with a crowbar. They shuffle away, gently easing it off it's hinges before they back out of the room completely. Fisher locks the cell, eyes glued to the monitor.

The panel lands with a resonating thud. Everyone is tense, the air heavy with their mutual anticipation. Fisher can't see much at first, but he can hear a god awful snuffling sound, like a hungry bear at the back of the crate. Slowly, the specimen edges towards the light, it's crouched silhouette slowly becoming visible in the dark.

It's smaller than Fisher anticipated.

"Is that..." he starts, as Thomas steps up to the window in the cell door for a closer look. "a boy?"

Dr. Neilson frowns, shaking his head. "We think... we think it used to be."

Stepping out of the shadows completely, shying away from the light, the boy-like creature emerges; it's clothes are tatty and dirty, oversized blue overalls hanging from it's bony frame, blood staining it's shirt shoulder. He looks at it first like a child in it's father's clothes, but as Fisher studies it's gruesome face, he realizes the boy must be older than that. That's not the most sickening thing. A gruesome wound in the side of it's face reveals half a mouthful of razor sharp fangs, not at all uniform in their growth, as if competing to escape his mouth. One eye is blood shot, the other glazed over white. A fresh scar on it's forehead appears gangreous from lack of treatment. It's inhuman eyes dart back and forth around the room, and Fisher notices blood on it's knuckles and missing nails from where it's been scratching at the crate in an attempt to escape. He feels sick to his stomach, but he can't take his eyes away.

Apart from the obvious disfigurements, it looks so human.

He opens his mouth to speak to the doctor, but the creature beats him to it.

"H-hello?" it calls weakly, trembling arms wrapping around it's body. "P-please, I just want to go home..."


	3. Chapter 3

\- May 2015 – Three Months After Dawn -

_‘You know Ernie, we've had a few listeners call in with their thoughts about those kids who were up on Mount Washington back in February.’_

_‘Oh yeah, Fred? What’ve they got to say for themselves?’_

_‘Well, the general consensus seems to be that there’s something funny going on. A lot of our listeners think the whole thing ended a little abruptly. The public want answers, what can I say?’_

“Honey. Would you mind switching that off? I’m trying to study.”

Emily taps her pencil angrily on the edge of her desk, one eyebrow arched as she casts an irritated look in Matt’s direction. He’s laid out on her dorm bed, arms behind his head, portable radio balanced on his stomach; his eyes are closed, almost snoozing to the dulcet tones of NYU Radio’s enigmatic hosts.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, blinking back to full consciousness. “I was waiting for the football. I’m missing a big game this weekend.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear this, so turn it off. Okay?”

_‘It’s gotta be tough for those kids. Imagine losing a friend that way, on the anniversary of a tragedy…’_

_‘Tougher for the parent’s, Ernie. Surely. Didn’t I hear something about a murder charge?’_

Matt frowns as he catches up with the topic. Everyone is ready for the case to be closed and put to bed, and he hates – even more than listening to people talk about it – the fact that he was so helpless to the others in the whole situation. In the police station back in Calgary, he didn’t even have a helpful contribution to make to the story everyone was supplying.

If he’s honest, he feels like he’s come out of it better than any of them. He’s gathered that he missed a lot whilst he was down in the mines, and although the tower coming down shook him up pretty bad, once he learned that the whole Chris killing Josh fiasco had been part of an elaborate prank he’d been able to get passed it. Put it behind him like a bad dream that felt too real.

They’d told Matt about the monsters, and whilst it had made sense with everything he’d seen and heard up on that mountain, it was still hard to get his head around it and accept it; it had driven a wedge through their group and he couldn’t ignore how angry he was at Josh that even after he was gone, his stupidity was still tearing them all apart. He couldn’t help but think none of this would have happened without Josh.

Emily wanted to forget it as badly as he did. When they’d first been allowed to see each other, after the interviews, she’d flung herself into his arms and held onto him like no girl had held him before. She’d sobbed – Matt was pretty sure none of them had ever seen her cry before then – and he’d just put his arms around her, and kissed her head, and mumbled soft nothings into her hair. Now, if she wanted to pretend like nothing had happened at all, he was willing to give her that fantasy; even if it means flying up to New York from his college in Louisiana every single weekend. Even if it means desperately trying not to throw his arms around her when she wakes up screaming in the night. She's told him not to touch her. He wants to respect that.

_'The case has been cleared, but the general consensus is we're not being told all the facts. What really happened on that mountain? Why the strange stories? What aren't the public being told?'_

Matt doesn't want to hear this either. He flicks the radio off and gives Em an apologetic look, to which she simply shakes her head.

"I wanted to catch the latest on the Tigers," he suggests again, shrugging slightly. They aren't great conversationalists, but that's nothing new. "See how they're playing without me?"

Emily huffs, going back to her work. "I'm trying to study, Matthew. Quiet." She pauses, and there's an uncomfortable silence in the air that won't subside. Sighing heavily, she puts down her pencil. "Besides, no amount of pining is going to get you back on the team faster. So put a sock in it."

Matt suffered a hairline fracture in his left ankle; it wasn't picked up by the hospital when they were first rescued, and walking on it for three weeks had made it infinitely worse. Three months on, and being a Tigers linebacker was still a distant dream for the one-time star player. It had healed enough to walk, but heavy exercise threatened permanent damage. Matt is totally gutted; he had made the team just a month before they'd gone up to the mountain, aceing tryouts with Emily on the bleachers giving it her all.

Happy memories, he thinks. That was the weekend he'd finally told her how he felt, after Mike had cut her off. At first, when Emily had paraded him around like a shiny new toy, Matt was suspicious she just wanted a rebound to make her asshole of an ex jealous. Now... he thought they might really have something. He'd heard how terrible things brought people together - and the last few months had felt really special.

"Maybe it'll never heal," Emily sneered slightly. "What're you going to do then?"

Matt shot her a gloomy look. "It's going to heal, babe."

She stares him down, then let out a teasing laugh. "I'm just messing with you, handsome. You'll be a star player, and you and I will be in all the magazines. Just you wait and see."

Abandoning her work, Emily gets up from the desk and drags herself over to the bed. She looks down at Matt with a teasing smile, trailing her fingers along his arm. Matt meets her eyes, hungry curiosity creeping over his face.

“Work not important anymore, babe?”

“Maybe it can wait,” Emily grins, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress and leaning down to kiss him. 

Matt captures her in his arms, pulling her further onto the bed, her legs kicking playfully as she deepens the kiss.

On the edge of the desk her phone starts to vibrate, but neither of them hear it, even as it drops to the floor.

\---

The stark lights of the gas station are harsh in the early morning light; the sun is up, but not enough to justify switching off his headlights just yet, and he finds himself shielding his face from the brightness as he steps into the building of the Flying J Travel Plaza.

Several aisles of snacks, magazines and car accessories separate him from the register, and whilst he had just intended on heading right up to it to pay, he stops then to think what he might need.

He’s about three hours out of Los Angeles, just over the state line into Arizona. The town is called Ehrenberg, but he’s never heard of it. Everything in the area looks about fifty years behind, and as far as Mike can tell, all it has is a gas station and little else. He doesn’t care. It feels good to be away, and to come this far before the world has woken up. Mike feels as if, maybe, something would have tried to stop him, had he not left when he did. Now he feels like nothing can touch him.

Grabbing a basket, he walks up the first aisle, eyeing up everything in case he might need it. It occurs to him that he hasn’t thought this through enough, but for weeks, his mind has been clouded with thoughts of running away, and little else has been able to penetrate.

Mike picks up a few tins of spaghetti, a box of energy bars, and a few packs of chips. An unappetizing egg and bacon sub, to satisfy his grumbling stomach. There’s not much else that will keep in the car. There’s no decent dog food, but he picks up some cheap kibble and tinned meat anyway, and a few packs of beef jerky they can share. He’ll have to buy something better in the next big city he hits.

He knows he’s probably going to regret bringing the dog eventually. But so far, the companionship has been appreciated.

Heavy with exhaustion, physical and mental, Mike can feel his eyes sagging. He chucks a couple of energy drinks into the basket for good measure, and grabs a ten litre bottle of water before dragging it all over to the counter. There would have been far better choice in the last town five miles back, but he really didn’t want to stop until he’d crossed the border into the next state.

“Morning,” Mike says politely, dumping the carrier on the desk. The teller is a young guy, Hispanic, with dark, floppy hair and a bored look on his face. Mike feels bad for him; he can’t be older than sixteen. The clock on the wall makes it ten past seven. He imagines the kid would rather be in bed. “Long shift?”

“Mmm,” the guy mumbles, not looking up from the desk as he starts to add up Mike’s purchases. He hands Mike a paper bag and starts pushing the scanned items back towards him.

With a sigh, Mike starts to pack. Tries again, because it would be nice to talk to someone other than the dog today. “Get a lot of people through this town?”

The kid shrugs; finally looking up at Mike, his face says everything about how he doesn’t want to talk. “I guess.”

So much for that.

The till rings up $72 with the gas, and Mike cringes a little. He’s got to be more conscientious of his expenses; he’s not exactly made of money. As he hands over his credit card he thinks of his father, not for the first time that morning, and worries how he’ll cope without Mike there to make sure the bills go out on time. He needs to put it all behind him.

With a disgruntled ‘thanks’ to the teller, he leaves quickly. Shepherd’s head hangs out of his passenger window, tongue lolling from his mouth. It puts a smile on Mike’s face and he tears open the packet of jerky, tossing a piece to the dog as he walks past the car. 

Maybe he won’t regret bringing him along after all.

As he pulls out of the gas station, he pops a can of Red Bull and watches the small neighbourhood begin to come alive with the morning. People kiss their family goodbye on the stoop, get in their cars to make the journey to their workplaces, tend to their yards. Everything might be wrong in Mike’s life right now, but the world remains in balance. The Earth keeps spinning, and a new day brings endless possibilities. His smile grows as he thinks about it. Better things lie ahead.

\---

The FISCO offices have been busy as of late; Fisher finds himself increasingly worked off his feet, wondering when it became policy to investigate every incident recorded across the states or mentioned online. It felt as if the governing body had something to prove. With the General still out of action, Fisher was running the place. He found himself trapped in his office most days, or designating staff to fly across the country to record every hunch or blurred photograph, he had barely had time for his most pressing project.

Not that much progression had been made on Project HGA3. Every government body in the country seemed to have questions, but the truth was, they still knew very little about their live specimen.

What he did know, was that Alec Neilson had apparently made a permanent move to their department. Fisher didn’t like him. For starters, he was German. He may have had an American accent, but that didn’t fool the Sergeant. He hated Europeans. He could smell it on them.

Luckily for him, Dr. Neilson spends most of his time down in the facilities of sub-level 5, only surfacing to provide him occasional updates on changes in the specimen’s status. There were very few. Fisher was less pleased with the way Neilson had apparently adopted the redheaded idiot technician as his assistant; the doctor wanted as little knowledge as possible to leave their authority, and seeing as Thomas had been there from the beginning, it seemed he had to stay. It seemed as though Neilson actually had a soft spot for the boy. It was alarming to say the least.

He’d noticed another grey hair today.

A natural break comes in his workload at about half past two. Switching his phone to voicemail and hurrying away from his desk, Fisher locks his door on the way out. He knows if he doesn’t, someone will come knocking.

“Sergeant,” a voice calls, collaring him as he tries to move through the lobby undetected. “Have you got a minute?”

Straightening up, hands clasped neatly behind his back, Fisher turns to the offending employee. “Agent Fletcher. Was there something urgent?”

Jacob Fletcher is an agent he actually doesn’t mind. Almost everyone rubs the Sergeant the wrong way, but this particular FISCO foot soldier reminds him a hell of a lot of himself when he was younger. He’s not sure why; perhaps it’s the way the man moves, or the properness of his stature. He’s got a determination on his face that appears more genetic than learned.

Still, Fisher has places to be.

“I’m not sure, sir. Couple of suits dropped it off. Front desk asked me to bring it to you.”

The agent hands him an envelope. It’s lighter than he’s expecting.

“Was that all?” Fisher asks curiously, turning it over in his hands to look for any tell of what may be inside its paper walls. It has his name and rank printed on the front, and FISCO seal, but nothing else. It worries him.

Jacob nods, grimacing apologetically and backing away even as he’s speaking. “Sorry, sir. I’ll let you get back to it.”

However grateful he is that the interruption was brief, the contents of the envelope in his hands is concerning. Fisher doesn’t want to open it in a public space, so he slips it into his jacket. It becomes heavy then, like a palpable growth in his pocket; Fisher tries not to let the anxiety eat at him as he steps into the elevator.

 

Alec Neilson has been sitting outside of holding cell 12B for more than half an hour, watching his assistant interact with their subject. He’s acutely aware that Thomas doesn’t know he’s there, otherwise he suspects he’d see interactions of a far more forced variety, if any. 

He likes how natural Thomas is with the creature. He’d expect less from a medical technician; most of the ones he’d met in his time had been characteristically detached and insensitive. The sympathetic ones went on to be doctors after medical school – but not Thomas. He seemed genuinely passionate about his interactions with the subject, and not just in a scientific way. During their first week of study, Neilson had been strict with him about it.

“Don’t make friends with monsters,” he’d said. He regretted it. And not just for the deer in headlights look the redhead had given him, as if he’d just been caught breaking the law.

Luckily, his stern warning had gone in one ear and out the other.

It had actually benefitted the project overall. Of all the comprehensive, vocal interactions they’d had with the creature in the last few months, Thomas had incited almost one hundred percent of them. He’d actually spoken to the on-site scientist who was acting as project leader about ensuring the rest of the team treated the creature better. Its reactions under duress were a valid cause for study but they wanted justifiable results on their human enhancement program; Alec knows they need to tame the beast if they’re going to get there.

“Are you hungry?” the redhead asks. The creature looks at him suspiciously, nose wrinkling with alertness. Alec has noticed how it used to be his first interaction upon entering the cell, but not anymore. Now he eases into it, gains trust like one would with a wild animal. He wonders if the kid has any experience with the latter, or whether instinct is doing all the work.

The double doors behind him hiss, heavy boots crossing the floor towards him. Neilson doesn’t have to look up to know it’s the Sergeant.

“Fisher,” he says, dragging the name out. They’re grating on each other lately. “To whom do we owe this pleasure?”

The Sergeant sniffs, coming up beside him. “Five minutes of spare time and I have to spend it down here. What do you have for me, Doctor? Make it quick.”

Alec shrugs, continuing to watch his assistant. The subject is sniffing at him, growling through his overgrown teeth. Thomas doesn’t so much as flinch. Of course, the creature has been neutralized, both hands shackled, claws regularly removed. The few bites members of the staff have received have proved not to be contagious, to everyone’s relief. “No changes. I would notify you if there were.”

For the first few weeks, Alec had been on the phone to Fisher every day, informing him of the creature’s movements from hour to hour. The second time it spoke a full sentence, his hands had shook with excitement. But, it soon fell back into its stupor. They’d since learned this would be a common, if not irregular, proceeding. Few of them bothered to take detailed notes on it anymore.

“What of the parents?” he asked curiously. “Were they ever contacted?”

Watching Thomas as he feeds the creature, Fisher feels a small knot of anger in his gut. He knows the interactions are a necessary part of the research process, but he hates seeing the idiot in there, treating the monster like a pet dog. This is not why he got involved with this department.

“Is that nice, Joshua?” Thomas says, sitting on his haunches and patiently holding out a gloved hand to it, offering it another chunk of raw pig meat. The knot in Fisher’s gut pulls tight, and he explodes.

Slamming his finger down on the transmission button, Fisher leans over Alec to spit into the microphone. “What the hell have I told you about calling the goddamn specimen by that name?”

Alec feels a lighting bolt of fear course through him as the Sergeant’s voice booms through the speakers in the cell. Thomas’ head jerks around in surprise, as he stares up at the one-way glass. He doesn’t see the creature snap until it’s too late, and he’s too close. All Alec can do is watch in horror as stretches the restraints to their limit, forcing the technician down and sinking it’s jagged teeth into his pale face.

“Security!” Alec yells, slamming down on the alarm on his console. The emergency light begins to flash, and the guards are in the room almost as soon as the sound starts blaring. As they wrestle the creature off of Thomas, Alec covers his eyes; he doesn’t want to see his assistant’s mutilated face.

Beside him, Fisher is yet to react. He straightens up, clasping his hands behind his back once again. “The parents have been contacted,” he says, as calmly and sternly as ever. “The Washington’s have been told that the Calgary PS are sending his body home. He’s too mutilated to identify, but the DNA match to the sample they provided has proven undeniable.”

Looking up at the Sergeant with a mix of horror and disgust on his face, Alec swallows hard; he tells himself this is just a side effect of the job, and it is. He reminds himself not to make friends with monsters.

Fisher smiles grimly as he goes on, paying no mind to the rush of people around them, coming to the technician’s aid. In his pocket, he feels the weight of an open envelope, with a game-changing message on the inside. It burns through his pocket and into his chest like a poison coursing through his whole body. “There will be a funeral. His family will bury his empty casket next to his sisters.”

\---

A loud knock on Emily’s dorm room door interrupts their moment of post-coital bliss. Matt groans loudly, grabbing at the covers to pull them over himself, as Emily sits up.

“Who the fuck is it?” She sings, groping at the bottom of her bed for her bra. 

“Celina.”

The unfamiliar voice irritates Matt, because he’s not used to Emily knowing so many people that he doesn’t. He watches her lazily, pouting a little, as she starts to throw her clothes back on.

“One sec,” she hollers back, swinging her leg over Matt and sitting on him. His pout subsides to a smirk as he ogles her naked lower body. She looks at him, sneering slightly as she slips off the other side. “Don’t be disgusting, Matt. I need to get this.”

Wriggling into her leggings, she grabs Matt’s letterman off the rug – the new one, because the last one couldn’t be saved – and throws it over the top of her haphazard outfit as she answers the door.

“Graham was asking after you,” the girl says as Emily pokes her head out. “Something about a meeting, supposed to be this afternoon?”

Emily glances back into the room at Matt, who simply shrugs at her. He knows nothing about her life here at NYU. He’s just the ‘be here when you need me’ boyfriend, he supposes.

“Right, shit,” Emily says, running a hand through her hair. “Need to grab a shower first, you know? Can you tell him I’ll be right there?”

Celina laughs knowingly, and then she’s gone. Emily curses as she shuts the door.

“What’s the matter?” Matt asks absently, sitting up a little. “It can’t wait? I was getting cosy.”

“No, Matthew. It can’t wait. Can you tidy up a bit? I need to wash this stink off me.”

Matt is trying not to be offended. He knows she never means the things she says. Still, it doesn’t keep him from sighing audibly, just to get her goat. She glares at him and he shoots her a forced smile before he replies. “Sure, babe.”

“That’s my boy,” Emily says, grabbing her shower bag and hurrying out the door.

He’s lazy about getting up, digging through his rucksack for a clean pair of boxers and tugging them on before he starts to pick up after them. The room starts to look better after he’s made the bed, but Matt’s not sure how one of his socks made it onto the windowsill, and he’s amused and proud of himself when he finds Emily’s underwear in pride of place on top of her unfinished assignment. He’s almost tempted to leave it there, but for self-preservation reasons, he eventually chucks it into the laundry basket. That’s an argument he’ll be fine without.

After he’s tidied the desk, because somehow they’d knocked over all of her stationary, he checks under it for stray pencils. There are two.

“Who says it doesn’t pay to be persistent?” Matt says to the empty room, grinning at his find. No one can call him a lazy boyfriend, that’s for sure.

A flashing light under the desk catches his eye. Emily’s phone. The blipping light reminds him, his needs to charge. He scoops hers up, hitting the button to snoop on her notifications.

Two missed calls from ‘Graham’. He sniffs. Whoever the hell this guy is, he’s not muscling in on Matt’s girl. He makes a note to raise the issue when she’s back out of the shower, however bad an idea that might be.

Also, she has a text from Chris. Matt opens it without thinking. The only time Chris texts Emily tends to be a group text anyway.

 

As Emily comes back in from the shower, she rubs early at her head with a towel. She’s running way too late, and it’s got her agitated. The last thing she wants to see is Matt on her bed, looking at her phone.

“What the hell are you doing?” Emily snaps, snatching it out of his hands before he has time to react.

“Em-” Matt yelps, cringing as he reaches after it. “It’s not what you think.”

She raises one bitchy eyebrow, staring him down before her eyes flick to the screen. As she reads, they widen in shock, and Matt can see her heart sink.

“They’ve found Josh’s body,” he reiterates, his voice softer now. He’s getting up as he speaks, defeated as he feels. Putting his arms around Emily’s waist, he pulls her close. She doesn’t fight it. “They’re bringing him home.”

\---

Mike stops at the Buckeye Motel, just west of Phoenix. He’s not far out, but he’s pretty sure he can’t drive another mile without falling asleep at the wheel. Besides, it’s close to midday – he had to stop and let Shepherd out for a half hour or so – and he’ll get a cheaper room rate staying a few hours at this time of day. He needs to rest.

The Buckeye boasts internet access and hot showers, which Mike would’ve assumed was standard with most motels, but on the way up highway 10, he’s seen worse. The last two he passed were derelict. This one also sports a small but life-saving ‘dogs welcome’ notice, hanging from its vacancy sign.

Carrying his rucksack and food into his budget room, he starts to feel light-headed. It’s not just the exhaustion. He throws himself down on the bed, Shepherd crawling up next to him on the mattress, and closes his eyes.

The last two times he’d stayed in motels had bad memories attached. The first was just after Blackwood – the Calgary Police Service had put them up in a Super8 whilst they carried out the part of their investigation that involved the seven of them not crossing the border. Jess was checked into the nearest hospital for her wounds, but him and the others were outpatients, and none of them had said a word to each other on the journey back from the hospital to the motel. He’d lay awake, alone, in that motel room all night. He couldn’t even bring himself to close his eyes.

The latest had been just before his trial. He wasn’t supposed to speak to anyone, especially not the others – his lawyer had advised he isolate himself, just to keep well away from anything that could be used against him. Mike had spent six days mind-numbing days in that lonely double room, staring absently at his phone, checking social media and generally feeling completely disconnected from the world. That was when he first began to formulate his plan – he’d considered running from any conviction they’d given him. He couldn’t see any other outcome anyway.

The trial seemed hopeless. His government-granted defense attorney didn’t have anything on Bob Washington’s prosecutor; the very same man he’d used on countless occasions against copyright violations and – Mike knew because Hannah had confided in him, and he would take the secret to his grave – once to draw up divorce papers. It hadn’t gone ahead.

When he’d stood up at that podium, trying desperately to explain his version of events, he’d seen the smug look in the prosecutor’s eyes. Mike knew exactly what was happening. His defense sounded insane.

_“We’ll try for an insanity plea,” his attorney says quietly, during a break in the hearing. “If this goes wrong, I mean.”_

_Mike’s not exactly filled with confidence at the statement. He feels his head swimming, and he thinks he may be on the verge of a mental breakdown. “Your suggestion is god damn insane,” he snaps, throwing his hands up. “I’m not insane, Jerry. And I’m not guilty. Why me? Why the fuck aren’t my friends standing up with me and taking the blame? What has that smug little fucker got against me?”_

_The attorney cringes, flicking back through his notes. “We’ve been over this. Everyone’s case was reviewed; the prosecution is saying, all clues point to you. Malicious intent. Mental instability.”_

_“Mental what?” Mike growls, snatching the notes out of Jerry’s hands. He reads them over, his shoulders sinking. “I’m not mentally unstable. Josh was mentally unstable. I was just… under immense stress!”_

_Back on the podium, Mike faces down his foes with renewed anger. He won’t go down for this. The prosecution steps up again, and it’s the same accusatory shit they’ve been through._

_“…and that’s when, the witness says, you pulled a gun on Miss Emily Lowe, with the intent to kill. Where did you get the gun, Mr. Munroe?”_

_Mike rubs his hands over his face, desperate to wake up from this nightmare. He’s horrified that one of his friends has given a statement about him that can do this much damage._

_“The Sanatorium. It belonged to the guy who helped us. I found it-”_

_“Stole it?”_

_He narrows his eyes at the lawyer. “However you want to put it. I took it from his possessions there. I thought he was the threat and I wanted… the means to defend myself.”_

_It seems impossible. He’s staring despair and hopelessness right in the eye, and the demon is called the prosecution. Mike feels his impending doom swallowing him whole, and starts to play out his escape in his head._

_He’s not a killer. He has to keep reminding himself._

_He’s not a killer._

_When the jury stands and gives their verdict, he is genuinely lost for words. His lips part, but not a single sound departs from between them. Insufficient evidence for conviction; he’s a free man._

_For the first time since he was eight years old, Mike starts to cry._

The blaring text tone on his cell rouses him from his nightmare. As he hauls himself from the throes of sleep, Mike can feel his face is damp again. It’s not the first time since that day. Disgusted with himself, he wipes his jacket sleeve over his eyes and looks around the bright room; he’s surprised he could sleep at all.

Shepherd snoozes undisturbed beside him, curled up like a puppy. Mike is grateful again for the company. His face dry, Mike fumbles in his pockets for his phone and blinks groggily at the name on his screen.

Chris.

Not now, he thinks. He can’t do this.

He opens it anyway.

‘I’ve sent a mass text to the others,’ it reads. Mike frowns as he goes on. ‘But I thought you might take it badly if I sent you that. They’ve found Josh’s body. Burial is next week. IDK if you should come or if you want to. Hope ur okay. I’m not.’

There’s that lump in his throat again. Mike’s thumb hovers over the reply button, but after a moment’s consideration, he changes his mind and locks his phone instead, tossing it aside. It’s better this way.

After all, he reminds himself grimly, Josh Washington is dead because of him.


	4. Chapter 4

– April 2015 – Two Months After Dawn – 

_“Hey Jessica, it’s Mike. It’s a b-e-a-u-tiful day today and I was just thinking of you. Are you having a good time with your mom? I’m so ready to catch some alone time with you at the lodge next weekend. I think I’ll ask Josh for the cabin keys, see if we can get some ‘private time’, if you know what I mean. You sexy little monster. Call me when you get this, okay?”_

Wrapped in a towel, hair dripping wet and remnants of last night’s make up smudged on her face; Jessica hopes her damp skin and tired, bloodshot eyes hide the tears gathering in their corners when they inevitably escape. Her fingers tremble slightly as she listens to her voicemail again and again. Mike sounds so happy, so innocent; Jess remembers hearing his message for the first time, giggling with excitement even as she tried to tell herself it was lame, he was lame. She wishes she could find her way back to that place.

She checks her messages again, waiting desperately for her boyfriend’s reply.

It feels strange to call Mike that now, because it’s been three weeks since they even spoke and she doesn’t know if it’s even an acceptable term anymore. His last text keeps flashing up on her screen as she refreshes it.

‘I’m so sorry I’m not there for you. It’s no excuse but I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. You deserve better than me, Jessica.’

Was that a break up? She doesn’t know. She can’t get through to him on the phone, and she can see that he’s read all the messages she’s sent back to him. It stings.

‘You don’t need to say sorry! I just want to see you. Can I at least do that?’

‘Please Mike.’

‘I love you. Don’t abandon me.’

She cringes as she reads the last message she’d sent. Wonders if it’s worth sending another to apologize for that. Mike wouldn’t abandon her, she knows this; he came for her when she needed him most. That was all that mattered.

So why did it feel like he was leaving her behind?

They’d never managed a conversation about what had happened to him that night, and she blamed herself for that. When they’d been reunited, it’d been all about her – was she alright, was she hurting, was she going to be able to sleep at night? Jess isn’t sure whether he was avoiding the subject or whether she’d been too needy to ask him. Now things had gone so wrong. They weren’t talking, and the only time she sees him is when he’s on the news.

Her head is pounding – another hangover, the fourth this week – and she can’t gather her thoughts. Glancing at the time, she realizes she’s been sitting there for more than half an hour, checking those messages. Checking to see if he’s posted online. Hovered over the speed dial, knowing he won’t pick up if she tries. What she wouldn’t give for him just to hold her again.

Feeling another ounce of hope get shaved away, Jess drops her phone on her bed and gets up, standing in front of the mirror. 

Immediately she realizes she’s made a mistake. Studying her reflection, Jess sucks in a sharp breath and feels the first couple of tears drip down her cheeks. She wipes them away aggressively. She’s cried over this enough.

Her fingers trace the deep wounds on her face, feeling their roughness against her skin. They’re still sore; it feels like they’re never going to heal.

Dropping her towel, Jess’ shoulders sag as it hits the floor. Her ivory skin is black and blue, garish in parts, some of the bruises as large as a fist. Other areas were yellowing, like too many fingerprints jabbed into her skin over and over and Jessica can’t help thinking she looks more ill than injured. She’s fragile, and her body seems to have withered, skin hugging her bones; she’s lost ten pounds already, and for the first time in her life, Jess hates it. It’s as if she’s suffered some terrible disease. She feels like people can see it when they look at her, and it’s turning everyone away.

“Jessica!” Her mother’s voice cuts violently through her contemplative silence, accompanied by a series of loud knocks on her bedroom door. With a frown, Jess turns to the sound, gathering her towel up off the floor and wrapping it back around her quickly. “Are you getting ready? Your recital is in forty-five minutes, okay? You don’t want to be late!”

“Yes mom,” she echoes back. Her lips pull tight in frustration, because she can’t seem to clear her mind enough to take control of what she’s doing. Glancing around the room, Jess tries to remind herself that everything is okay. She smiles back at her posters and books, and twinkling fairy lights strung around the lilac walls. She’s safe here.

Looking back to the mirror, Jess tries to get her head in the game.

The dance recital has been everything to her for the last six months, at least before the mountain trip. It’s a showcase of epic proportions, with at least five major dance schools being represented in the audience including Tisch, Fordham and Juilliard. Besides the prestige, getting into any one of those schools would have meant being just a stones throw from Emily at NYU, which was definitely a major factor before she’s started sneaking around with her best friend’s boyfriend on the side. After that, it became a mission. She had to show Em she could do it. Jessica wasn’t sure what she would have achieved by doing so; maybe it was to prove she was smarter or more talented than Emily, or maybe just to show she hadn’t thrown her whole life away to be with Mike.

She’d talked about it endlessly with him, about how she’d never felt so passionate about putting effort into anything in her life, about what he’d do if she moved across the country, and what it meant for their budding relationship; it would mean leaving UCLA the following June to start again in New York, and leaving Mike behind. Once, he’d said he’d go with her. Jess had never known if he’d meant it. Now she might never get a chance to ask.

Dancing doesn’t feel so important anymore. But she has to follow through, because she has to prove to herself that her life can go on. That’s what her state-provided therapist tells her, anyway.

Jess dresses quickly in the clothes her mother has picked out for her solo piece; a simple black dress and tights. The outfit doesn’t cover all her bruises but she doesn’t allow herself time to stop and think about it.

Next, she dries her hair. It’s frustrating, because her hair extensions are coming loose. They need to be redone or removed.

Perhaps, she thinks, she can get them out.

Face almost pressed against the mirror, Jess fiddles with the threads knotting the extensions into her own hair, trying to snap them loose. With a growl of frustration, she tugs the extension hard.

Jess yells out in pain, and as she blinks it away, she looks up at the damage. Part of the tiny plait holding the extensions in has become completely ruffled, a big mess on her head.

“Stupid,” she whispers, glaring at her reflection. “Idiot girl.”

Sneering at the pathetic image staring back at her, Jessica reaches for the scissors on her desk. The extensions are coming out, whether they like it or not.

\--- 

The towering ceilings and elegant murals littering the mahogany paneled walls of the public library loom overhead, giving way only to tall archways leading from each room to the next. The hall at the back of the library has no windows, and the rows of books stacked across dozens of carved wooden shelves are accentuated only by the dim, moody lights of the intricate lamps at the apex of each row. The whole room is a vista of late nineteenth century architecture, every table and stack a spectacle of ornate carvings and craftsmanship, with touches of brass and iron at their edges and thick rugs covering the intricate mosaic floor. 

Chris finds the whole place a little creepy.

As he moves between the stacks he runs his fingers along the books, collecting dust from the spines of tomes that probably haven’t been selected from the shelves in years. He thinks about how long each title must have taken each author to complete, and how strange it seemed now that they should sit untouched on the shelves of a public building, all but forgotten about.

Lately, he’s been feeling like his relationship with Ashley has been a little like that. After so many years of unspoken want between them, of all that closeness that was always just a hands reach from what they wanted, both too scared to close the gap, now they’re finally together, they’re lost. 

He’s spending more and more time out of the house with Sam, and he’s not picking up Ashley’s messages as soon as his phone goes off. When they’re together, that companionship that was always so strong is still there. But it feels like it’s just that; companionship, and little else. He doesn’t know how to react to it, and it’s easier just to sweep it under the rug.

Ashley isn’t texting him as much either. In the past week, they’ve only seen each other twice. Chris thinks, perhaps, she feels it too.

Getting out is helping and so is having something to focus on, even if it feels a little ridiculous. Chris’ fingers slide to the title he’s looking for, and he stops dead.  
“There we go,” he murmurs to himself, slipping the book out of the row. The title is particularly underwhelming, but it’s definitely the one Sam mentioned, with thick gold bands running around the cover. Chris hopes that _Definitive Folklore of North America_ provides them with something more useful than anything they’ve read in the last two weeks of coming here.

He flicks through the pages as he wanders back over to their table, dropping into his seat across the table from Sam.

“Anything interesting?” She asks, eyes snapping up from the newspapers she has spread out all over the table.

“Looks like it’s the same old stuff we’ve been reading,” he groans, leaning his chair back and tapping his closed laptop suggestively. “I still say we’ll find better information online.”

Sam chuckles, shaking her head as she goes back to the papers. “Don’t you think I’ve tried that? There’s too much information online.”

She pours over each one as Chris starts to trace through the index. Beside her, untouched papers sit in a neat stack; to the other side, a more haphazard pile has been less than fruitful. She tosses the one she’s reading on top.

Chris has been worried about her; the way she seems so focused on the task at hand, the content smile that seems permanently fixed on her face and that cold look in her eyes. But he doesn’t want to ask, the same way she doesn’t ask about him. They’re all coping in their own ways, and if Chris and Sam can connect and heal by looking up stories about monsters, that’s all he needs.

“They’re in here. Don’t know if it’s going to be useful,” Chris says, as he thumbs through the back of the book. Sam grabs another newspaper, glancing up at Chris and urging him to go on. He bites his lip, reading ahead a little before he begins to recite it back to her. “The ‘Wìdjigò’, or Wendigo, is mythological creature of Anishinabe origin, often depicted as a gaunt creature with greying skin, impossibly thin and tall, with an insatiable appetite for human flesh. The Wendigo spirit lives in the coldest, most barren places, and can possess any sinner who commits an act of cannibalism.”

Sam interrupts him with a curt laugh.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she sighs, and leans on her hand as she turns the page of her new paper. “Anything new in there about killing them?”

“Hang on, there’s more here,” Chris chuckles, scanning down the page. “It is said that the human it possessed is still frozen inside in place of the creature’s heart. Some legends describe the successful rescue of a human from the inside the heart of a Wendigo–”

“Oh god,” Sam interrupts, giving him a troubled look, “don’t say that. That makes it worse, thinking they might still be people in there.”

Chris forces an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. It does say that usually, all stories of the Wendigo suggest death as the only escape,” he pauses, turning the page. A haunting image of the damned creature stares up at him from the book, white eyes boring into his and it’s emaciated body looming off the paper and into his memories. He exhales heavily, covering the image with his hand as he reads the passage beside it.

“Oh, here’s something. In 1907 an Oji-Cree man named Jack Fiddler was arrested with his brother in Ontario for killing fourteen men and women over a number of years. It says he claimed all fourteen were Wendigos, or on the verge of becoming one, and later hung himself before he could be put to trial. But the catch is, Fiddler was a shaman of his people, renowned by his tribe for defeating Wendigos, either by killing them, or exorcizing their spirits. He was only arrested when the mounted police decided to enforce new laws and make an example of him.”

“Exorcizing?” Sam says curiously.

“I guess if it’s a spirit like that guy on the mountain said, that makes sense,” Chris shrugs. “None of this is really new information. And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I get you want to read into this, but what are we looking for? I don’t think we’re going to find any Wendigos in California.”

Sam sighs, running a hand through her hair and tucking it behind her ear. “That’s why I’ve got all the newspapers. These aren’t just California.”

Picking up the papers as she speaks, she tosses them down in front of Chris. “Alberta. Ontario. Wisconsin, Louisiana, Oregon… I could go on. Somewhere, someone’s got to have seen something and told their story.”

“That’s one hell of a mission,” Chris coughs, looking down at the papers in front of him. An article in the top corner of a recent copy of The Bulletin catches his eye.

“Maybe,” Sam says, giving him that hungry, calculated look he’s getting more and more used to. “But I’m going to find those monsters and put them down for good.”

\---

At first, it’s just one section, but Jess can’t leave it at that.

Forcing the blunt scissors into her long hair over and over again, she finds herself less interested in getting rid of the extensions and more obsessed with making it all disappear, every inch of the blonde mop on top of her head, of the fakery. It used to be her public face, a shield she could hide behind; now she all she can think is how weak hiding has made her.

Jess can hear the blades of her tool snipping violently in her ear as she works her way around it, yellow locks floating to the floor as they come away gently. She doesn’t even notice she’s crying, not until it’s all gone, the longest strands of hair on her head the fringe hanging down in front of it. The tears slide gently down her pale cheeks and she catches the last few strands of her long hair as they float to the ground. Cradling them, Jess looks again at her reflection; this time she doesn’t see a pathetic girl before her. In fact, she doesn’t see a girl at all.

More like an empty shell. Like her broken body belongs to a mannequin, after all the essence of what made it human has escaped its walls. She lets the strands flutter away from her grasp and runs her fingers through the short tresses she’s left behind. She’s staring at a different person.

“Jess dear, are you ready?” her mother hounds, and there’s no knock this time. The door swings open, and her mother steps inside, and actually screams. “Jessica! What have you done to your hair?”

She looks around at the woman with a blank expression, staring not at her, but through her.

Her mother is an ageing socialite, Jess’ idol since she was a little girl. Her trim body is adorned with a daring fashion Jess could only dream of pulling off, draped with the jewels bought by her stepfather. Her mother carries them like a birthright. Her long, flowing brown hair hangs in flawless curls over her shoulders, and her face is a porcelain picture of renaissance beauty. Jess wishes she were half the woman her mother has always been.

But now, surrounded by heaps of her own hair, she feels only anger towards the woman standing over her. She’s staring at something she can never be, and the urge to take the scissors in her trembling hands and drive them into her mother’s face so she knows how Jess feels suddenly burns inside her. She shakes the damned tool free from her hands and lets it drop to the floor.

“Mom, I don’t want to do this.”

For a moment, a sympathetic sadness crosses her mother’s face, and Jess thinks she might understand. There’s a pain inside her that she can’t close off; she feels like an engine, buckling under the weight of her personal hell.

The worst part is, she can barely remember why. She’s not sure if it’s her mind trying to block out the memories or whether she could ever remember what happened up on the mountain, but it’s all gone.

Jess’ mother’s shocked face seems to twist in front of her eyes, becoming a disfigured caricature of the anger seething in her expression. Jess cowers back, wrapping her arms around herself as she tries not to look at the beast.

“I can’t believe you,” her mother snaps. “I thought we were past this, Jessica. It’s always the same, every time you try to do anything. Always quitting at the last minute. Not this time. Do you know how much time and money your father and I have put into this?”

“I know, I – I just…”

“Just what? Even your doctor says you should go through with this. I’m not taking no for an answer!”

With a dry sob, Jess nods her head, fingernails digging into the skin on her arms. Her mother relaxes then, grotesque snarl gently returning to a warm smile, and she comes closer, putting her hands on Jess’ shoulders.

“That’s my girl. Let me help you sort this mess out. We’re running out of time.”

\---

Chris shoves the copy of The Bulletin over the table back towards Sam.

“There’s something here,” he says, tapping on the article. “Mystery animal attack in New Pine Creek in Oregon. Did you see this?”

Picking up the newspaper, Sam flips hastily through to the full article, eyes darting back and forth across the page. “Police are still searching for the mystery animal blamed for the death of nine-year-old Ryan Tasker three weeks ago. The incident took place at eight thirty p.m. on March 29th in the fields behind the Tasker’s suburban home. The animal in question, described to be as tall as a bear, with cat-like features and strange black markings on it’s neck also severely injured the Tasker’s twelve-year-old daughter Harriett, who remains in hospital during the search. Residents are being warned to stay indoors after dark.”

“Does that sound like a Wendigo?” Chris says hesitantly. “I wouldn’t call them cat-like.”

Sam shakes her head, reading on silently as Chris starts to flip through the book again.

“Could just be a mountain lion. Like a really big one,” he suggests.

“No, listen,” Sam says, tapping her page. “No wildlife native to the area matches the description given by Harriet Tasker and local authorities have suggested the creature may have escaped from a resident illegally keeping exotic animals.”

“What’s the description?”

“It’s not here,” Sam tutts in frustration as she starts to root back through her resources for other copies of The Bulletin, her two piles of newspapers spilling over the table. “Maybe it was mentioned in an early paper? There’s got to be something.”

With a gentle hand on hers, Chris stills her. He’s a little shocked at the determination in her eyes, lowering his voice a little as he tries to reason with her. “It’s not a Wendigo.”

She glowers back at him. “No, you’re right. It’s not. But there’s a little girl in hospital, and whatever did that to her is still at large. I have to know more, Chris. I have to.”

Offering an encouraging smile back, Chris tries not to let his skepticism show. “Alright. But forget the papers.”

Opening his laptop, Chris logs online and searches for the incident. A dozen local news articles come up, and he starts to sift through them, skim reading each one for more information.

“Anything?” Sam nudges him as she steps around the table, leaning over Chris’ shoulder. He shakes his head in response.

“Not really, but... I can check the evidence archives. Her statement is probably in there.”

“We can do that?” Sam asks in surprise, taken aback as Chris clicks through to the local sheriff station’s website. He looks at her, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head slightly.

“I can do that, if that’s what you mean,” he explains hesitantly. “Remember when I told you I wasn’t worried about Mike’s trial?”

Sam eyes him suspiciously.

“I knew they didn’t have enough evidence on him to make a conviction… because I checked,” he says sheepishly. With a few clicks of the keyboard, he’s into the station’s local network. Sam opens her mouth to speak, not sure how to respond. He cuts in before she can. “No, before you ask. I shouldn’t be doing this. I was worried about him.”

“Wow,” Sam says eventually, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m impressed, I think? How did you learn to do all this?”

“You wanna read her statement or not?” Chris chuckles meekly, tapping in a code, finger hovering over the enter key. Sam hesitantly nods her approval. He presses down, and seconds later they’re in a database she knows they shouldn’t be in. She watches in wonder as Chris’ fingers dance across the computer keys, digging them deeper and deeper into the network data until he stops, hovering over a link that reads ‘Tasker, H – 15/03/2015’.

When he clicks through, they’re presented with a whole load of information, but Sam can see what they need immediately.

“What’s the video file?” she asks, prodding a finger at the screen. With a shrug, Chris clicks it open. The video loads slowly, both of them breathing heavily in anticipation.

The image of the injured girl that flashes up on screen is not for the faint-hearted. Her face is blue and swollen, part of her long strawberry blonde hair shaved away to reveal a long, deep gouge in the side of her head, stitched up with thick thread. Both lips are split, and the wound definitely looks more like a slash of claws than a beating, running right down to her chin. One of the girl’s eyes is covered with gauze, a hint of blood already seeping through. More violent red marks are visible on her arm, and disappearing into the neck of her gown, and behind her is an IV drip, hooked up to her hand.

Chris turns his head away, pressing his knuckles to his mouth, but Sam doesn’t falter. Her mouth turns down, pained look crossing her face as she waits for Harriett Tasker to answer the questions she’s being asked.

 _“Harriett, I know this is hard for you,”_ the sheriff’s deputy beside the girl speaks softly, his voice comforting and kind. _“But I need you to tell me what happened. Tell me everything you can remember.”_

The girl chokes slightly as she opens her mouth to speak; rubs her face with one hand, dirt under her nails. She winces at her own touch, turning her face away from the camera before she speaks. _“I don’t know. I – I was chasing Ryan in the trees. We were playing hide and seek.”_

_“Did you see the animal?”_

_“No,”_ A long pause. The girl fiddles with the hem of her hospital gown. _“Not until it had Ryan. I heard him screaming and I couldn’t find him.”_

The deputy takes her tiny hand, squeezing it encouragingly. Harriett looks up at him, her big, damp eyes telling the story of just how much she’d seen.

Staring at the video, Sam recognizes the look on that little girl’s face. It’s been a long time, but she’s seen it in the mirror before. Her brow furrows as she edges a chair up next to Chris and sits down, prepared to watch every second of the horror on screen.

“How is this not a bigger story?” Sam asks, elbowing Chris in the side. “This should be national news. Look at her!”

With a grimace, Chris looks back around. “Jesus, Sam.”

 _“Then I… I saw it eating him,”_ the girl in the video starts to sob violently, face screwing up with pain as the salty tears slip over her cuts and bruises. _“He’s dead… isn’t he?”_

The door behind the deputy opens and closes loudly. The dark figure who steps inside is merely a silhouette at first, looming over the deputy and the girl in front of the only light in the room.

 _“Who are you?”_ the deputy asks, and Sam finds his uncertainty alarming. The figure steps into the light; a young man, tall and broad with dark skin and hair, his navy raincoat emblazoned with some sort of crest. His stature is threatening, and as he moves, it feels mechanical and trained. A gloved hand presents the deputy with a folded letter, holding it right in his face until he takes it.

_“Agent Fletcher, F.I.S.C.O. This case is under our jurisdiction, and it would be much appreciated if the Oregon State Police would co-operate quickly.”_

The deputy has nothing to say as he reads the notice he’s been handed, looking up at the agent in disbelief when he’s done.

“Whoa,” Chris says, giving the video his full attention at last. “I don’t think we should be seeing this, Sam.”

“No shit,” She says in a worried whisper. Grabbing her headphone from her jacket pocket, she stuffs them into the laptop and hands an earbud to Chris.

_“I am going to need you to leave the room, Deputy Reynolds. I will see to it that you receive the information you need.”_

Reynolds stares him down, but reluctantly backs out of the room. Fletcher takes his seat, getting out a dictaphone. The agent lifts it to his lips, hitting a button on the side. He speaks almost too quietly to hear. _“June 30th 2015. This is Agent Jacob Fletcher, recording for FISCO. Incident W49, New Pine Creek, Oregon. Victim is Harriett Tasker._

“Fisco,” Sam whispers. “F-I-S-C-O. I wonder what it means.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Chris shrugs, speaking under his breath. “I’ll search for it later.”

 _“Miss Tasker,”_ the man says, and the little girl appears to shrinks, her arms drawing closer to her body and her eyes transfixed on the frightening newcomer. _“Your little brother was attacked and killed this morning by a creature. You were not. I’m going to ask you some questions about that creature. Think carefully, because your answers are very important. Do you understand?”_

The girl nods soberly, drawing even further away still.

_“What did the creature look like, Miss Tasker?”_

Sam feels her breath catch in her throat. This is the information they’re bidding for. She feels her shoulders tense up, fully prepared for the girl to describe something just like they’d seen on the mountain.

 _“I didn’t see it clearly,”_ Harriett whispers, looking away now. It’s clear that Fletcher knows she’s lying. Reaching out, he clicks in front of her face until she looks back at him.

_“The creature attacked you. Was it in cold blood, or did you do something to it that would make it act that way?”_

After another long pause, the girl covers her face with her hands and weakly, begins to speak. _“It… it was eating Ryan… I had to help him.”_

_“What did you do?”_

_“I threw a rock. A big one. It hit it in the leg.”_

_“So you did see it.”_

Sheepishly, she nods and glances at the agent again. _“It looked like… a lion, but bigger than a lion. Like a bear.”_

Feeling her heart sink a little, Sam is angry with herself as she realizes how disappointed she is that it doesn’t sound like the monsters from the mountain. She keeps it to herself, disgusted that she could feel that way. It wasn’t going to be a wendigo. Surely, she knew that deep down.

 _“But when I threw the rock it stood up like a person and looked at me,”_ Harriet goes on. _“I swear it looked right at me. In the eyes. And then it attacked me.”_

 _“What else can you remember?”_ the agent asks, leaning forward in his chair. _“Tell me very clearly. Did it have any distinctive markings, perhaps a dark pattern on its fur?”_

It’s Chris who nudges Sam this time, his face pale with concern at what he’s hearing. “That’s a weird question,” he hisses. “Like this clown Fletcher knows exactly what he’s asking about.”

Sam nods silently, pressing her fingers to her pursed lips as she listens.

 _“It… yeah,”_ the girl replies, nodding frantically. More tears slip down her cheeks as her whole body visibly tenses up. _“Like a weird circle on it’s neck. I saw it when it jumped on me-”_

Suddenly, the laptop screen starts to pixelate, the video shuddering to a stop. Chris’ eyes stretch wide with panic, and he starts frantically stabbing at the keyboard with his fingers as the screen fades to blue.

“Shit!” he yelps, and covers his mouth as a few library patrons grumble at the sound. Slamming the laptop shut, he looks around the room nervously.

Sam laughs dryly at him, leaning her elbows on the table. “What the hell was that?”

“I think we just got caught,” Chris says, worrying at his lip. “We got shut down.”

“Oh, god. Are you going to be in trouble?”

He shrugs helplessly. “Hopefully not. I mean, public library Internet access. And I took precautions… Can never be too careful, in sex or hacking.”

“Chris.”

He chuckles, rolling his shoulders back and slowly relaxing. “But that was kind of creepy, don’t you think? I’ve never heard of a big cat standing on two legs.”

Shaking her head, Sam picks up the book Chris had been leafing through. “I’m going to check this out, see what I can find.”

“You think it’s a monster?” he asks in surprise. “I was thinking like, overgrown mountain lion, some sort of mutant bear…”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Laughing again, Chris rubs the back of his neck. “Only sort of. Look, this has been weird today… and I’ve got to get home. Gotta fix this laptop before the men in black come for me. Can we… pick this up again another time?”

Sam pulls a face, but gives up quickly and grins at him, getting up and starting to tidy the newspapers. Chris breathes a sigh of relief, packing up too.

“I’m going to see what else I can find. See if there’s anything on… ‘big cats on two legs’,” Sam says hesitantly. “Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“Well… two things. First, thanks for doing this with me. You’re really helping.”

Chris sniffs, smiling at her as he shakes his head. He puts his bag back down and pulls her into a big hug, squeezing her tighter than he expected to. It feels good to touch someone and not feel like they’re going to break. Being with Ashley is exhausting; no matter how much he doesn’t want to admit it.

“You big sap. You know this is helping me too, right? I’ve got nothing else, Sam.”

“Who you calling a sap?” Sam jokes as she pulls back, smacking him playfully on the arm. “But I know. Just… thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Chris pauses expectantly, letting the silence hang between them. “Well? What was the other thing?”

“Oh,” she says slowly, looking away. “It’s just… I think… I think I’m going to go to Oregon, Chris?”

He steps back in surprise, looking her up and down for a moment in surprise; but after a few seconds, he realizes what she means. “Wait… to where that girl is? Sam…”

“I’m serious,” Sam stresses, lowering her voice. “We both said we know there’s probably more out there than just wendigos, right? What if they’re just the tip of the iceberg? This could be it, Chris. And I have to know.”

Frowning, Chris picks up his bag again, wringing the strap in his hands anxiously. “What if it’s dangerous?”

“Walking down the street is dangerous,” she snaps, and then quickly apologizes, sighing heavily. “Look, I’m going to go. Maybe next week or something, I’m not asking you to come. I just can’t – that girl’s face, that weird FISCO guy, or whatever he was… I can’t leave that alone.”

He throws the bag over his shoulder, taking a deep, unsteady breath and looking her dead in the eyes. “I can’t stop you, can I?”

Sam shakes her head several times, corners of her lips turning up in amusement as she sees his expression change from worry to resignation.

“Just be careful, Sam. I need you to be safe. And don’t leave without telling me when you’re going.”

“Alright mom,” Sam laughs, elbowing him playfully. “Get going already. I’ll call you.”

Chris hugs her again, despite her protests, and walks away, leaving Sam to her research. He can feel a ball of dread biting at his gut, because this feels like a really bad idea. What he needs is to go home, go to sleep, and forget all about Harriett Tasker. He steps out of the library into the light of the setting sun as it slips behind the Los Angeles skyline, and deep down he knows he’s not going to be able to do that. 

 

Half an hour later, Chris is home. It’s a long drive back to his parent’s house in the dark, and he’s tired but at least he’s had time to process what he saw in the library. Chris realizes that more than anything he’s scared something might happen to Sam. If something really is out there, something other than the wendigos, he wants to know about it as much as she does. He feels equal parts brave and broken, ready to face whatever comes next and too scared to step foot outside his door ever again. At least the thought of monsters provides a heavy distraction for the rest of his feelings.

Chris never thought he’d say that.

He pulls his beat up Dodge into his parent’s driveway, his headlights catching the small figure sitting on the doorstep. Pulling a face, he shuts the car off and opens his door. The rest of his feelings aren’t going to go away so easy after all.

“Ashley?”

“Hey,” she murmurs, pushing herself clumsily to her feet. “I was waiting for you.”

Frowning, Chris hurries over, taking Ashley into his arms. Even through the thick layer of her hoodie, he can feel her body shivering beneath the fabric, chilled to the bone by the icy spring wind. “You could have knocked, my mom would have let you in. You’re freezing, baby.”

“Mmm,” she shrugs, melting into the embrace. “I’ve been out here for forty five minutes.”

“Fuck,” Chris mutters under his breath, bundling her up in his coat. “You need to get inside, you crazy girl.”

Leading her into the house, Chris sheds his outer layers and boots and leads her gently by the hands up towards his room. He can hear his father snoring peacefully as they tiptoe past the door of the master bedroom.

Chris’ room is pretty large, a few framed posters strung up of his favorite bands and movies. His old wooden desk is covered in scribbles and smears of paint from the models he used to make as a child, with his desktop computer sitting pride of place on top of it, it’s big blue lights flashing slowly in the dark. His bed, pushed up against the corner by the door, is a mess of quilts and blankets; Chris can’t remember making it since he was a child. It’s here he sits Ashley down, cupping her chin and lifting her face to look at him, brushing an unruly piece of hair away from her forehead.

“You know,” he says, sitting beside her and scooting as close as he can get. He nuzzles his nose into her cheek gently as his arms loop around her waist. “You’re pretty cute. I’m a lucky guy. I don’t say that enough.”

Her smile only makes it halfway up her face. “You’re just saying that.”

Leaning back to look at her clearly, Chris frowns deeply. “Of course I’m not. You know how I feel about you, Ash.”

Ashley meets her eyes, her own brimming with sadness. “Do I? Are you going to pretend you can’t feel it, Chris? We’re drifting apart.”

Her lips tremble as she silences herself, trying to draw the will to speak calmly. Chris waits patiently, clasping her hands in his own as she worries at her fingernails.

“It’s like…” she stammers, sucking in a sharp breath. “Like we were never meant to be together. Do you think we would be together, if everything had gone differently? After all those years we talked around it?” 

Chris stays silent for a while, taking the time to really think about the question. He pulls her close, pressing his lips to the top of her head, a shaky breath escaping into her hair.

“Yes,” he says with as much certainty as he can muster. “Maybe not yet, but it was going to happen. We’re meant to be together, Ashley. Everyone else knew it and we never spoke about it and I’m sorry it took something so horrible to bring it out into the open.”

Pulling away again, he looks her dead in the eyes. Ashley nibbles her bottom lip, sniffing and wiping her damp eyes with the edge of her sleeve.

“We’ve been through a lot, Ash. But I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. I love you.”

Her frown breaks into a smile and she leans forwards to capture his lips, nodding into the kiss. Chris sighs softly, running his fingers gently through her hair. He’s surprised to feel her fingers on the zipper of his jacket, but she’s quickly sliding it off, down his arms, as she climbs into his lap.

Chris doesn’t fight it, letting her guide his hands to her waist and up, under her shirt; her tiny hands make quick work of the fly on his jeans, and they bring their bodies together, their lips never parting. It’s not the first time Chris and Ashley have made love, and it’s not the first time he’s told her he loves her. He just hopes, from the pit of his heart, that he means it.


	5. Chapter 5

– May 2015 – Three Months After Dawn –

Bright Skies Diner sits on the end of the strip leading out of town, just around the corner from the Buckeye Motel. It’s Mike’s second breakfast in the 24-hour dive, although he does intend it to be his last this time. He’d never meant to stop in Phoenix, and although it seems nice enough after a couple of day trips in and out of the city, it’s not nearly far enough from home for him to get comfortable.

He finds himself sat again on the third stool from the end of the counter, pushing a fried breakfast around his plate, listening to the upbeat radio hosts of the early morning news. Shepherd sits patiently at his feet, leash tied loosely to the leg of the stool; the occasional wet dog nose pressed to his calf reminds Mike that he’s not the only hungry man at the table. He chucks half a sausage down, and it’s gone before it ever has a chance to hit the floor.

“Refill, honey?”

The woman behind the counter is plump and tanned, her hips bursting out of her uniform, curled red hair matching perfectly with her lipstick. Her face is harsh, a constant pout on her lips and an obvious attitude in the way she holds her brow, but Mike knows she’s perfectly lovely, if you just talk to her. Her name is Janet, and she’s lived and worked in Phoenix for thirty-five years.

She loves to talk about herself, and Mike’s not complaining, because he’d rather talk about anything but him. He doesn’t even mind hearing about her awful boyfriend, and the way he fights with her ex-husband, who lives next door; Mike’s even offered to sort them out for her, which she politely refused, but it seems to have gotten her thinking he’s a blessing from above.

“Sure,” he says, smiling sweetly at her and getting the same in return. He nudges his half empty coffee mug across the counter. “You’re a star.”

“I’ll get something for the pup too,” Janet notes, filling his cup and crouching behind the counter. When she emerges again, she’s got a handful of chunky dog biscuits, and Shepherd’s up in no time, trying to get his paws on the counter.

“Down, Shep,” Mike tutts, nudging the dog away. “Sit down!”

“Aww,” Janet grins lopsidedly. “The doggy’s just excited. Who’s a good boy?”

She tosses the biscuits to the floor, much to Shepherd’s delight. 

The diner door swings open, and they both look around; a group of five burly, broad-shouldered men come in, dressed head to toe in dusty, unbranded all-weather uniforms with dirt-caked boots that tread mud all the way across the floor. They look unkempt, acting like rowdy boys as they cross the room to the counter and fill up most of the available stools. The man beside Mike has a thick beard and dry, chapped skin and lips. He wonders where they’ve come from, eyeing them silently, trying not to draw attention to himself.

“Ey, doll,” the man hollers at Janet. “Get us a coffee would you?”

Mike narrows his eyes, casting a glance at the waitress before he lets himself get angry with the newcomer. Her face tells a story of a woman who has put up with harassment like this for too many years; tapping his foot in frustration against the stool leg, Mike bites his tongue and keeps eating.

Janet pours out a few mugs of coffee, sitting the pot on the counter in front of them and continuing to clean her station without acknowledging the men. The bearded man picks up his cup, sniffing at the contents before he tastes it hesitantly. He screws his face up and spits the mouthful back into his drink.  
“Oi, you little cow. The sign said hot coffee. This is fucking cold.”

Mike tenses, feeling a ball of anger clenching in his gut, but Janet gets to them first. She turns back to face them, locking eyes with the outspoken ringleader and holding his stare as she picks up the pot and feels the side with her hand.

“So sorry,” she says, unwavering in her glower. “Let me make you another.”

“What a bitch,” one of the other men says as he nudges the guy next to him with his elbow. “She needs a good seeing to.”

As she steps over to the coffee machine, Mike can see Janet’s fingers tense around the handle of the jug, and he’s sure he sees her shoulders shake. He stabs his fork into his food, gritting his teeth as he tries to resist the urge to give them a piece of his mind.

“Are you alright?” Mike murmurs quietly, and Janet nods weakly, throwing a grumpy look back in the groups direction.

“Used to it. Copper miners, they’re always passing through here.”

No one deserves to be used to that, he thinks, but he doesn’t want to cause the poor woman any more trouble. Besides, there’s five of them and one of him. He’s severely outnumbered.

Shepherd rests his muzzle on Mike’s thigh, sensing his discomfort; with a tense smile, he reaches down to pat the dog’s head, trying to swallow his anger.

But when the bearded man reaches over the counter and puts his fat, grubby hands on Janet’s arm, he just can’t stop himself. Mike really doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t need this, not after everything he’s been through.

He’s just not going to sit back and let anyone get away with that.

“Take your hands off her,” he says through his teeth, grabbing a fistful of the man’s sleeve and jerking his arm back. The ringleader snaps around with fire in his eyes. Mike holds his ground for a moment before he lets the fabric go. “Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The man hisses, and Mike feels a spray of nasty saliva hit his face. He recoils slightly, wiping it with his hand. “You can’t talk to me like that, you sack of shit.”

Gathering behind him, the man’s rowdy companions look on with a ferocious amount of excitement on their faces, like a pack of rabid dogs ready for the kill.

“Mike,” Janet says quietly. “Don’t bother with these assholes.”

“I don’t even know you pal,” Mike says to the guy as calmly as he can, although his eyes are brimming with rage. He knows he should heed the waitress’ advice, but that would be admitting defeat. He also knows he’s right. “But you don’t touch a woman like that.”

Beside him, Shepherd lets out a low growl, ears flattening as he eyes up the group. Mike puts a gentle hand on the dogs collar to hold him back.

The bearded man snorts, looking around smugly at his pack. He seems to puff up his chest as he gives Mike a once over with his eyes, sizing him up as an opponent.

“Would you look at that,” he sneers. “We’ve got a regular little feminist over here.”

Looking Mike dead in the eye, he cracks his knuckles. “Where you from Mikey boy? You’re overstepping your mark kid. This is our diner in our fucking town and we treat our bitches however we like. Especially trash like her.”

“Alright,” Mike spits back. “I gave you one chance. That’s all you get.”

His eyes darkening, he barely feels himself draw his arm back before he throws a heavy fist right into the man’s hairy face with enough power to smash his crooked nose. Blood explodes down his mouth and chin as he’s flung back into his pack; they stumble to catch him, and all four of them seem to swell as they turn their anger on him, their chests rising with seized breaths and tensed muscles.

“You little motherfucker,” the packleader spits, wiping his bloody mouth on the back of his hand. He looks like a monster, a seething, toothy grimace on his battered face. “We’re going to eat you alive.”

The miner is fast, but Mike is ready. He ducks under the first punch and side steps another as it misses his gut by a hairs breadth. He swings again, almost landing another fist in his opponent’s face but an arm around his throat yanks him back out of range and he’s winded as he staggers into his attacker, elbows flailing back until they collide with something solid. His feet are useless as he’s dragged kicking and growling towards the doors, and two more pairs of hands hurl him into the wood. He can hear Shepherd barking wildly, his howls echoing through the cramped metal walls.

Suddenly, a rush of sound; the wind, the highway, the heavy thud of his own body hitting concrete as he tumbles back onto the ground in the parking lot. His elbow collides with the tarmac, searing pain burning through his bones, but he gives himself less than a second to recover as he scrambles ungracefully back to his feet, raising his fists defensively, his vision swimming all the while.

Pouring out of the open doors, the pack of men howl with laughter as their leader approaches him again.

“Had enough yet, you little spitfuck?” The bearded man cackles, but Mike can’t see through the veil of red burning in his mind. The beast is wide open. He throws a fist, colliding with the man’s chest and he feels something crack beneath his hand; Mike doesn’t know if it’s his own bones or his opponents, or perhaps both.

The monster recoils, clutching his arms to his wounded torso like he’s been shot. Panting heavily, he almost buckles, his blood-covered face contorting in pain. Mike shakes his hand, tensing and releasing it again as he bites back the sting in his knuckles. That’s going to bruise.

“Fucking… kill him,” his opponent wheezes, leaning on his thighs as he tries to recover.

Mike doesn’t have time to put distance between him and the group as they hulk forwards as one; it’s all over. He throws punches wildly, feet kicking out like a cornered animal putting up it’s final fight. There’s too many of them. One set of knuckles strikes his gut and another, his face, and the coppery tang of his own blood explodes into his mouth as his lip splits open. Too many hands force him down, and he’s on the tarmac again. There’s nothing he can do but shield his face with both arms as dirt-caked boots collide with his gut and back. 

The irony, he thinks, that he should die here after everything he’s survived.

Suddenly, Shepherd’s thunderous bark is louder; barely finding the strength to lift his head, Mike can see the dog through blurry eyes, pelting towards the group with every ounce of it’s loyalty. Teeth bared, saliva slinging from his open mouth, Shepherd pierces the thigh of one of the men just as he goes to land a heavy kick into Mike’s stomach. The man hollers in pain, thrashing against the animal’s clamp-like jaw.

Behind him, a woman; Mike can see only her shape as his eyes cloud over. In her hands, a shotgun – she raises it to the sky, firing a warning shot that resonates through the air like a mighty clap of thunder.

It’s the last thing Mike hears as the world spins out of control, all of the colors around him dancing manically as they drain to nothingness. 

\---

Chris can’t really believe he’s doing this, the thought feeling increasingly unreasonable the more he tries to justify it. Sat at his computer, he pours over the map of California on his screen, considering the different roads he can take up to Oregon. Behind him, his open duffel bag sits empty on the bed, clothing and other things he thinks – fears – he might need strewn around it on the bedcovers.

Among them is a video camera. When he found it under his bed, his immediate thought was to document everything they see just in case they really did see something – after the mountain, the fiasco with the police interviews and the nonsense they all spewed about monsters and mad men and cannibalism, he’s realized just how important evidence really is. 

Not that he’s decided he’s definitely going. Not by a long shot.

Loading the camera up, he hadn’t been prepared to find the footage still stashed on the memory card. It was a jumble of moments in his recent years, of his eighteenth birthday, and the day he got his car; in all of them, Josh is somewhere in the background, smiling happily. So pleased for him. So alive.

Chris was choked up as he emptied them onto his computer, and saved them in a folder ‘Watch on Josh’s Birthday’. It’s the day before the funeral – he’ll need the happy memories to make it through. The reminder isn’t just for this birthday, but for every birthday, every year, for as long as it takes for Chris to stop blaming him for everything that happened. He doesn’t want to – he doesn’t even do it consciously. But something in some dark place in the back of his mind tells him it was _all Josh’s fault_ and he doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s self-preservation, because the rest of the time, Chris only blames himself.

His and Sam’s plan to drive twelve hours to Oregon on a wild goose chase is at once both the most exciting and most terrifying thing he’s ever planned to do. Chris has lost count of the endless hours of research he’s put in now, into Oregon wildlife, and big cats native to the USA, and how to hunt them – just in case. They haven’t talked at all about what they’ll do if they actually find the animal, whether it turns out to be a wild cat or a monster.

The frightening truth is, three months back he wouldn’t have known if he had it in him to shoot a living creature, even if was coming at him with the intent to kill. He’d often thought he’d freeze up in that situation, go down screaming without moving a muscle to defend himself.

Not anymore. He wonders what kind of person that makes him.

His phone vibrates loudly against the wood of his desk, and Chris jumps out of his seat slightly, deep in thought about his moral judgment. He snatches it up, because he’s been waiting on a reply from Mike for days and he’s starting to worry he said something wrong. He figures Mike’s probably at him limit with emotional baggage right now; perhaps he shouldn’t have hit him with the suggestion he shouldn’t come to the funeral.

Or perhaps he’s holed up with Jess, working through their bad memories together. Chris would like to hope it’s the latter.

It’s not from Mike.

The text from Sam makes Chris’ heart miss a beat, and he feels like all the air has been sucked from his lungs. He stares transfixed on the image on his screen like looking away will erase it completely.

Although just a sketch, the image matches Harriett Tasker’s description perfectly. The cat in the picture, if it can even be called that, is as large and broad as a grizzly bear, standing on its hind legs like a human. It has short fur, longer around the head, and huge canines meant for tearing into its prey whilst it’s still alive. And there, on its neck, a dark circle, unlike any natural marking he’s seen on an animal. A shiver runs down Chris’ spine.

Another text pops up under the image, a single word.

‘Wampus’

He’s heard the word before, but he can’t place a context for it. Chris hammers it into his computer’s search engine, scanning over the results.

It’s a mascot for several colleges and high schools; a mythological half-human, half-lion beast cursed to wander its native lands forever, suffering for its sins. One part of the creature’s description catches his eye; Chris almost anticipates it too much to be surprised. It’s another Native American creature, like the Wendigo. If Sam is right about the cat, Chris has a whole lot of North American folklore to read up on.

Suddenly, the danger feels a little too real. Glancing at the empty bag on his bed, Chris decides he can’t go through with this. He looks again at his phone, wondering how to break the news to Sam. 

\---

Mike comes around to a bright white light shining right into his eyes, and at first he’s sure he’s dead. As fast as it had appeared, the light is gone and he blinks away the spots in his eyes, his vision swimming out of sync with their movement as he tries to establish where in the world he might be. Above him, an unfamiliar ceiling spins in time with the motion of the ceiling fan dangling from it; the pine clad walls look like plenty of places he’s been in his life, and he knows instinctively that he’s not in any of them.

“You’re awake, at last.”

The rough voice seems to echo through the room, not coming from any particular direction. Mike furrows his brow, eyes darting around to locate the source of the sound.

Gradually, the world stills and he finds himself staring up at the weathered face of a stranger holding a small torch, which suddenly flashes back into life, offending his vision once more. He follows the light with his eyes as it floats before them.

“Where am I?” he mumbles, more a plea than a question. No answer follows, and Mike finds his limbs heavy as he tries to lift his hand to his aching head.

“You’re a lucky son of a bitch, I’ll tell you that,” the voice says again, and finally the man’s lips move to the rhythm of his words. Mike nods feebly, trying to push himself upright. “Nothing broken, as far as I can tell. You’re going to be a little sore.”

Another set of hands come to rest on his shoulders, supporting his movement until he’s seated. He sinks back into the couch, his whole body throbbing, and Mike’s acutely aware of just how sore every inch of him is. He doesn’t want to look in a mirror anytime soon. “What happened?”

“My sister says those men were giving her hassle. You’re lucky Dana arrived when she did. It doesn’t pay to be a martyr, kid.”

Looking around with a clear head at last, Mike catches sight of his savior. The girl is young, maybe a couple of years older than him, dressed in plaid and dark jeans. She’s short and slight with long, dirty blonde hair and not a dusting of make up on her pretty face; not the sort of girl he’d expect to come to his rescue wielding a shotgun, but Mike can see the weapon in question on the table behind her. He’s in their lounge, as far as he can tell. Dana smiles encouragingly at him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

“Janet says he’s a hero, Dad,” she says, raising an eyebrow at the older man. “You should have seen the state of her when she came to get me. Would you rather something have happened to her?”

“I s’pose not,” the man huffs. “We need to get you cleaned up, son.”

Mike nods again, a little overwhelmed by their domestic banter. He tries to sit still as Dana’s father begins to patch him up, wiping a wet wad of cotton wool against his cheek. It stinks of antiseptic, and the skin of his face stings as it brushes against his cuts and bruises.

“Where’s Shepherd?” He says with sudden realization, locking eyes with the man treating his wounds. “Where’s my dog?”

“In the diner with my sister, don’t you get your panties in a twist. Sit still.”

Despite the attitude, Mike’s grateful to have someone looking after him. He knows he wouldn’t be fixing himself up if he’d gotten back on the road alone. A few dollops of arnica cream and a fistful of painkillers later, and he can feel the pain slowly ebbing away. His hand is in more of a state, his knuckles scraped and swollen, but it’s nothing a few bandages can’t fix.

“Come in when you’re ready,” the man says. “We’ll fix you up something to eat.”

 

Once he’s alone, Mike lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding in. With his uninjured hand, he propels himself off the couch onto wobbly feet, steadying himself on the nearby table and taking a good look around the place. He figures by the door the Janet’s brother just left through that he’s in a room behind the diner, part of some sort of family home. It’s quaint, everything clad in orange-tinted wood and dated floral patterns. It reminds him vividly of the American suburbia of the sixties and seventies that lingered in his grandfather’s house – the one he grew up in – all through his childhood. As his senses return to full strength, he becomes acutely aware of a musty, floury smell in the room. It’s comforting, like warm bread coming straight out of the oven. He knows these are good people.

Lifting his shirt, Mike casts an eye over his gut and immediately regrets it, seeing the catastrophic bruising all over his skin like a bad tattoo. He’s ashamed to admit he’s had worse. Quickly covering himself again, he hobbles towards the door.

Janet’s sitting one of the booths with Dana and Shepherd when he steps back into the diner; she’s cradling a steaming mug, staring out the window, chatting quietly with her niece.

The dog immediately perks up, barking at Mike and tugging at the leash, which is wrapped around the table leg more securely than Mike had tied him up before. Janet looks around with a smile, waving him over.

“You’re a stupid kid, Mike,” she says as he approaches, shuffling over to give him room on the bench. “You did not need to do that.”

“Hindsight is a killer,” he laughs weakly, fussing the dog as he gratefully accepts the seat. “They had no right to treat you like that.”

Wrapping his arms around himself, Mike surveys the diner, and he can’t help but think how funny it is that everything seems so calm and normal after the scene he caused. A few of the regulars are casting disgruntled looks his way, but life continues to go on as if punches weren’t thrown and shots weren’t fired.

“You better watch yourself, because next time I might not be around to save your ass.” Dana says, tapping an irritated finger on the tabletop. Her face is sullen but her eyes are playful and Mike can hear it in the tone of her voice; she’s flirting with him. She’s a pretty girl, and he can’t deny that he would normally be game to get with any woman who’d just saved him with a shotgun. But now isn’t the time, or the place. For a second his mind wanders home, back to the girl he’s left behind.

Mike’s sorry. He really is. Jessica deserves better than a rat like him, and he’s too much of a coward to look her in the eye and tell her he can’t be with her anymore. He wonders what she’s thinking, how she’s been, and he’s sure in his heart that she’s better off alone if the other option is dating him. Probably.

He extinguishes the thought quickly and slings a smile at Dana in response. “Think of it this way,” Mike says, “now I’m indebted to you forever.”

 

A few minutes pass before Dana’s father, who Mike learns is called John Bright, joins them at the table with a plate of fried eggs, bacon and tomatoes for each of them. They explain that the family have owned Bright Skies diner for more than seven decades, opened in 1940 by John’s grandmother when her husband didn’t return from the war. Mike listens intently as the three of them tell him stories about the diner through the years, and it strikes him how sad it is that he feels more welcome and wanted here that he ever has done at his own dinner table.

Thinking of his father all alone in Los Angeles, he can’t help feeling a sting of pity for the man. Mike knows it’s likely he hasn’t noticed his absence yet, probably finding reasons to yell up the stairs, getting more and more angry at Mike’s lack of response. As Janet launches into a nostalgic story their grandmother used to tell, about how war changed their family’s path forever, Mike has to agree. War definitely changed Jackson Munroe; tragically, not even for the worse. The General was a good soldier, but he was a terrible father. He never could handle being a single parent, and often Mike thinks he’s easier to cope with as a drunk than a dad.

“I never asked, what brings you here?” Janet suddenly raises, pulling him out of his guilty mind. “Local boys don’t pick fights with men like that, so I’m guessing you’re from out of town.”

Ah, there it is. Talking about himself; how Mike hates to do it.

In a moment of sudden clarity, Mike realizes he has no responsibility to tell these people the truth. As nice as the Bright’s are, he doesn’t need people knowing his story.

“Work,” he says quickly, hoping it will satisfy their curiosity, but it doesn’t. The three of them sit expectantly facing him, waiting for him to expand on his answer. Dana eyes him curiously, but he doesn’t know her well enough to have a clue what she’s thinking. “Nothing exciting. I’ve been drifting for a while now, just Shep and me. My pockets are starting to get a little light… got to find a way to bring some cash in.”

Not too far from the truth, he figures.

John makes a noise that Mike can only attribute to the man being irritated by his response. He brushes it off, shrugging his shoulders and turning his attention to the hungry dog resting its head on his knee again.

“What can you do?” John asks, letting his cutlery clatter to his plate. Mike shrugs again, and for a moment he thinks they’re going to offer him work. He can’t do that, not after he’s lied to them moments before.

“Nothing worthwhile,” he laughs weakly. “Completely uneducated.”

Mike hopes it’s not too obvious that he’s lying. He’s half way through a political science degree, with a GPA of 3.9; it doesn’t lend itself well to his story. “Decided seeing America was more important than school. I just do odd jobs, here and there, you know? It’s not going to change the world, but I get by.”

“I’d suggest the copper mines,” Janet says lightly, because her brother seems to be getting increasingly worked up by Mike’s invented life. “But I don’t think you want to run into those miners again anytime soon.”

“Has it got to be Arizona?” Dana chimes in. Mike frowns, shaking his head in response. “He could work with Toby. Don’t you think, Jan?”

“Who’s Toby?” Mike asks, but before either woman can give him an answer, John is on his feet, scowling audibly. He starts to gather their plates with a little more force than necessary.

“I’m sure,” John huffs under his breath. “That would suit him very well.” 

Dana cringes, and Mike ends up doing the same. He’s not sure what family squabble he’s stumbled upon, but it seems to be bad, because Janet’s up on her feet moments later. With a flurry of apologies, she’s squeezing past Mike and helping John clear the table.

When they’re gone, Dana rolls her eyes as obviously as she can. She retrieves a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, offering them across the table to Mike. “Don’t mind him. Toby’s my brother... there’s a lot of bad blood there. Want a smoke?”

Not for over a year, Mike thinks as he stares down at the offering. They look pretty tempting, and his trusty lighter suddenly feels heavy in his jacket pocket. He is pretending to be someone else, he supposes. The nicotine will help ease his pain.

“If you don’t mind,” he says, sliding one from the packet. “Sorry for pissing your dad off.”

Dana laughs gently as she gets up, motioning for him to follow her outside. Mike unties Shepherd, falling in line behind her. “He’s like that. Don’t worry about it.”

“Look,” she says, as they step outside, out of earshot of the rest of her family. “I mean it. Those men you were fighting with – they’ll be back, you know. Out for blood. Toby’s a logger up in the mountains in Colorado, and they’re always taking on people with uh, questionable backgrounds. They’d have you.”

Mike pulls a face at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a terrible liar,” she snickers, patting down her pockets for a lighter. He flicks his open, lighting up her cigarette for her. After a few drags, she looks him dead in the eye. “I’ve seen you on the news. You’re Michael Munroe.”

With the cigarette dangling unlit from his lips, Mike feels a wave of misery crash over him. He averts his eyes from hers, staring down the long stretch of highway in front of the diner and wondering how soon he can get back on the road.

\---

It’s completely dark by the time Sam reaches the bus station, the bright lights inside the squat concrete lean-to that provides the only available shelter pouring out onto the concrete around the building like a halo. Dumping her heavy rucksack on the ground, she studies the timetable plastered to the back wall of the shelter, tracing a finger over it as she looks for her route. Moths flock to the light above her, and the night is so still she can hear them fluttering into it over and over again.

Twenty minutes to wait.

With a heavy sigh, she flops down on the bench, digging her iPod and headphones from the top pocket of her bag, stuffing them into her ears and putting on her favorite playlist.

Accompanied by a melancholy soundtrack of dulcet indie songs and classical piano solos, Sam waits. And waits. She can feel a ball of anxiety biting at her, but her resolve is solid. She’s going to Oregon, and it’s not just for the sake of that little girl.

Sam is more certain of what she’s doing now than anything she’s ever done in her life. For as long as she can remember, she’s wanted to make an impact in the world, to help people. She’s tried everything. Volunteering for charity year after year. She’s worked whole summers in camps for disabled children, and been involved in more protests than she can count on both hands. And, after a year and a half majoring in Conservation, she’s well aware that nothing she’s tried has ever felt right.

Nothing has ever been proactive enough to satisfy her, because Sam needs to act. She’s not a thinker. She’s always imagined she might end up abroad, helping refugees, or on one of those boats that protests whaling at sea. But monsters? Sam hates to admit it, but fighting for her life on Blackwood Mountain is the most invigorated she’s ever felt. The rush of adrenalin was enough to keep her spirits up for days. The sense of accomplishment, of victory, when she knew her friends were safe.

Eliminating the threat.

It all felt so real. So right.

Now she’s been dragged back to the cold reality of a life less extraordinary, Sam can’t figure out how to fit back in. She needs to feel alive again; needs to know that she’s right when she lies awake at night, wondering if she’s found her calling through this sick, twisted trauma they’ve been through.

Sam only wishes she could talk to someone about it. When she tried to bring it up with Chris, he’d been so worried about her she was forced to drop it in fear that he’d have a nervous breakdown. She doesn’t blame him for changing his mind about coming on the trip. Chris doesn’t have her constitution, and he’s got Ashley to worry about. The best thing for him – for all of them – is rest and recuperation, and time to forget all about what happened.

Even if the thought of going alone is terrifying, Sam has to respect that.

Slipping her phone out of her pocket, Sam pops one ear bud out and punches in the number of the only person she feels might understand.

It rings solemnly for three rings. Four. Five.

After ten, she goes to hang up, but the call gets picked up just as she’s about to put it down. Sam lifts the phone flush to her ear again.

“Mike?”

“Hey.”

He sounds distant, but Sam’s just happy to hear his voice. It’s been strange being out of contact with Mike. She’s missed seeing his updates online, and getting pointless text messages at three a.m. She could always rely on Mike to cheer her up, always managing to catch her out when she was feeling sad or irritable. He’s the only person besides her that she believes may have come out of this okay. 

“How the hell are you?” She says, her excitement audible. “I haven’t heard from you in ages. I’ve been worried.”

Met with silence from the other end of the line, Sam can hear something in the background when she strains. A low rumble, and the quiet beat of a song on the radio, volume right down. “Where are you? Are you driving?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a long pause. “I’m doing fine. What’s up?”

She frowns, feeling distinctly shirked by his brief answer. “I just wanted to talk to you, you know. See how you are. We went through this big ordeal together a couple of months ago, remember that?”

Another pause.

“Well, I’m fine,” he says again. Sam knows Mike is probably completely aware his answer is half-assed. “Coping. How are you doing?”

“Yeah, I’m fine too,” she finds herself saying, before she can stop herself. It’s harder to bring up than she thought it would be. “Coping, like you said. Not ready to go back to college yet, but I’m keeping busy.”

 

The phone call isn’t completely unwelcome, but Mike wishes he hadn’t answered. Hearing Sam’s voice brings another ripple of guilt about everything he’s left behind; he should have left it, should have severed contact like he’s been thinking about doing.

He’s halfway up the highway towards the next state border, Dana’s number in his phone, and an address scribbled on a napkin from the diner. Mike doesn’t know if he’s going to follow through with her suggestion to find her brother and ask about work, but at least Colorado is a direction to head in. He’ll need the money real soon anyway, and it’ll be tough to find somewhere else where no one will ask questions.

“I’m... going back to college. I’m in the car, heading up there now,” he says. She’ll work out he’s lying sooner or later, but they can cross that bridge when it comes to it. It’s easier than explaining the truth. With a few moments hesitation, he asks the question on the tip of his tongue. “How’s Jess?”

 

“You haven’t seen her?” Sam says, a little taken aback. She’d expected the two of them to be spending every second together. Perking up in her seat as a set of headlights round the corner, she’s disappointed to find that it’s not her bus. “I haven’t spoken to her either. Sorry, Mike.”

Each extended silence cuts deeper than the last and Sam wishes she knew where to begin because it feels like there’s so much left unsaid between then. She wants to ask him about Blackwood, about what he went through, about what he knows. Mike saw more than any of them. She knows that without having to ask; it was written all over his face from the moment they were airlifted away from the burning lodge. No matter how much he’d tried to keep it hidden, tried to carry on acting the hero for all of their sakes, it was in his every movement and expression.

The Michael Munroe they knew in school died on that mountain. The man that came down the mountain, the man who helped save them all, Sam wants to know him inside out.

“We should catch up soon,” she sighs. “I…want to talk to you. About everything. Will I see you at the funeral?” Sam’s made a pact with herself – she’ll be back from Oregon by then. No later. “You know about it, right?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Maybe. I don’t know if I should.”

“You should. It doesn’t matter if the Washington’s are a bit funny about it. He was your friend too, Mike. You’ve proved your innocence.”

“To the police, maybe. Doesn’t change the fact that all three of their kids are dead because of me.”

His words are supposed to be light-hearted, but there’s a sting in his voice and it hurts both of them.

“Don’t say that,” Sam snaps, leaning her head back against the bus shelter wall and closing her eyes. She exhales slowly, trying to keep her cool, but it aches to hear him talk like that. “Any one of us could say that. We were all at fault. You want to blame something? Blame the goddamn wendigos, Mike. Blame the monsters.”

More silence. She cringes, cursing herself for the outburst.

“I’ll see you there,” She resolves, but Sam’s got a feeling that’s probably not true. Another set of headlights round the corner, brighter now, and Sam breathes a sigh of relief that she’s got a reason to back out of this painful conversation she’s started before she digs herself an even deeper grave. “My bus is here, I’ve got to go. Promise me we’ll talk soon.”

“Yeah. Promise.”

So much left unsaid. Sam wishes she could ask him to come with her to Oregon; ask him not to let her do this alone. The line rings dead and the regret settles in, the misery in his voice echoing in her mind. Mike is not okay, she realizes. 

Neither is she.

The greyhound bus pulls up at the shelter, aluminum doors sighing as they slide open, and Sam looks up at open doorway with her rucksack hanging limply in one hand, having second thoughts for the first time since her crazy idea was conceived. She asks herself what the hell she’s doing, and struggles to place an answer. This is the most dangerous, ridiculous idea she’s ever had. Perhaps she’s losing her mind.

A blaring car horn startles her out of her momentary panic. Looking around at the offending vehicle, a bewildered grin spreads across her face.

Hanging out of the window of his mustard 1989 Chevy estate, Chris flags her down with a wave of his hand.

“Sam!” he shouts. “Don’t get on that bus!”


	6. Chapter 6

– May 2015 – Three Months After Dawn –

The drive to New Pine Creek is more than ten hours, and Chris tries to stick to the highway, keen not to get lost and elongate the trip any further. For a few hours, him and Sam chat to each other about what they’re doing, talk about what they’ve found. The atmosphere in the car is calm, but there’s an underlying tenseness in anticipation of what they’re doing.

“What made you change your mind?” Sam asks after a long, comfortable silence. They merge onto Highway 5; the roads are mostly empty, sprawling in the darkness as they leave the lights of Los Angeles in the rearview and head into the night.

Chris is quiet for a while, his glasses glinting as they catch the headlights of the occasional passing car. “I thought about it for ages,” he says eventually, his voice cheerless. “No matter what I tell myself, I don’t want to do this. But since we got home, it’s felt like I’m walking around in a dream all the time. I can barely believe what happened and I have to know if there’s something else out there, because that would make it real. I need to know we didn’t all just go crazy and make all that stuff up.”

“I get that,” Sam says softly, patting a comforting hand against his arm. “Thank you, Chris.”

She doesn’t have to say it; Chris can tell she didn’t want to go alone. He’s glad he’s here. He doesn’t know if he’s going to be any help when it comes down to it, but he’s got a car, a camera, and a conscience. Hopefully that’ll be of some use.

“Hey, I thought we could record the trip,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. “There’s a camera in my rucksack, if you’re up for it.”

Chris glances over to Sam, pleased to see a little smile breaking over her face, so often sombre recently, a mere ghost of the girl he’d known before. With an enthusiastic nod, she grabs the bag and starts digging through.

 

By three a.m. he’s almost too shattered to continue. They’ve dipped off the highway to avoid crossing state lines in Nevada and they’re only a few hours off from their destination. Sam is sleeping restlessly in the passenger seat, cradling the camera in her lap as she fidgets and shifts in her chair. Her head lulls to the side; Chris can see her eyebrows furrow as she lets out a quiet groan, and he wonders if she’s having a bad dream; he supposes she must have them, just like he does.

Finding himself drifting over the lines for the third time in fifteen minutes, Chris pulls the car over at the side of the road and rolls to a stop. Staring out into the emptiness before them, the deserted road framed by his car’s beams and acres of farmland to either side of it, he wonders if it’s safe to sleep. The soft whirr of the old car’s clunky engine sings to him, the heater blowing warm air around the vehicle, and it’s less than a minute before his eyes start to close of their own accord.

“Chris,” the soft sound echoes in his subconscious, and for a moment he’s sure he’s home, in his bed. He can see Ashley sat beside him, gently nudging his arm, and her soft scent fills his nostrils. Her red hair cascades over her freckled shoulders, face is glowing with tired happiness, and the warmth of her expression spreads over him, swaddling him in its cozy embrace.

“Morning Ash,” he mumbles, noting that she seems so happy, when lately she’s been so very sad. He couldn’t care less if it means he gets to see her smile. “Come back to bed.”

“Chris, wake up.”

Waking with a start, his bleary eyes stretch wide as he’s pulled reluctantly out of his dream. He remembers all too soon where he is; it doesn’t feel like he’s been asleep for long, but the blinking clock on the dashboard reads 05:17 and the first light of morning is starting to creep over the horizon.

Sam’s bundled up in the thick grey sweater he’d put in his rucksack, probably the easiest thing in reach. It suits her, he thinks absently, drowning her tiny frame, the sleeves so long her hands only just poke out of the cuffs. She’s shaking his shoulder, stopping as she realizes he’s back with her, although her hand lingers where it falls.

“The gas is running low.”

“Shit,” he hisses as he realizes what she’s talking about. He fell asleep with the engine running and the heating on; the gas tank gauge is wavering on less than a quarter tank and Chris has no idea how far they are from a truck stop. He turns the engine off, pulling the key out like it’s going to fire up again all on it’s own.

“Sleep well?” Sam chuckles, rubbing her hands over her eyes. She cranes her neck to look around at the endless, sprawling fields on either side of the road. “I’ve slept in worse places, I think. Where are we?”

Blinking tiredly Chris fumbles for his phone and checks the map. The signal is weak, but eventually it places them somewhere on the 395 between Sierraville and Doyle. It doesn’t look like there’s going to be another town for miles. “The ass end of nowhere. We’ll be okay, hopefully.”

“Do you want me to drive? You can’t have slept long.”

Chris didn’t even know she had her license, but he’s too exhausted to turn the offer down. “Sure, if you’re okay with that.”

Stepping out into the crisp morning air, he shivers and zips his sweater all the way up, letting his face disappear into the warmth of the tall collar. Sam steps around from the other side of the car, tugging on her boots over her long socks and leggings, and he laughs lightly to himself; they look like a couple of vagabonds, out on an adventure. They are, he supposes.

Tossing Sam the keys, he wanders a little way from the car. “Sorry, got to take a leak,” he shouts over his shoulder, making sure he’s got his back to the car.

Sam rolls her eyes, willing to wait until they stop for gas instead of making an idiot of herself behind a bush. “Don’t be long or I’m leaving without you.”

Climbing into the driver’s seat, Sam familiarizes herself with the old car; it’s nothing like anything she’s driven before but she’ll pick it up in no time. The vehicle is too old to have an iPod connection so Sam tries the radio instead, and the speakers splutter into life. A loud dubstep remix suddenly thunders from the car at full volume, shattering the serenity of the early morning and startling some nearby birds in the fields.

“Hell, Chris!” Sam slams the radio off again, cringing and squeezing her eyes shut. It’s too early to try to embrace Chris’ terrible taste in music.

Chris chuckles as he joins her again, and starts digging through his glove compartment for different CDs. “You’re not allowed to judge. I’ve seen some of the trash you listen to.”

“Shut it, nerd boy,” she laughs. “My music is just too cool for you.”

They pull away from the layby, both smiling, but silently hoping they make it to as gas stop before their trip is cut short. It feels nice to be out on the open road and there’s something about the cold light of morning that satisfies something in Chris’ soul; even if they don’t find anything, perhaps this is what they need to start healing.

 

\---

 

An orchestra of European classical rings through Alec Nielson’s apartment, ringing from the wall speakers through every corner of the space as he sways his hips to the dramatic notes. A stack of sirloin hisses in the hot pan on his stove, surrounded by heaps of fresh vegetables and potatoes, soaking up the juices of the sizzling steak. The smell wafts around the room, carried by the undulating ceiling fan, reaching every room of his two-bedroom apartment on the forty-second floor. Bliss.

He never takes his work home with him, but today has been an exception. A stack of research folders sits on his hardwood table, each one meticulously labeled with sticky notes and pages of handwritten findings he’s yet to make any sense of. Two months of studying their specimen has opened up more possibilities and theories than he can shake a stick at. Truth be told, he’s got more questions now than he did when he first set eyes on the subject, but that’s the dreadful nature of his career. He’s determined to break into it tonight and arrive at the lab the next day with some semblance of an answer.

But not before a little nourishment; a hearty meal is more important than anything to keep his mind stimulated. He wishes his interns would heed that advice – they’re never going to expand their minds snacking on chips and chocolate at their desks.

Just as he takes the pan off the heat, the door goes. Alec scowls, wondering who on earth could be calling on him at this hour.

His steely expression melts away as he’s met by the battered, swollen face of his young assistant.

“Thomas,” he says gently. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be out of the hospital.”

Wincing slightly as he parts his lips to speak, Tom’s brown eyes are brimming with an unmasked sadness. “They released me this morning.”

“Too soon,” Alec gushes, ushering him inside.

“Maybe,” Tom shrugs. Lifting a hand to his butchered cheek as he passes, he brushes his fingers along the long, jagged gashes, the stitches tugging painfully at his skin. “You said to come and see you when I was up for it.”

“You should be resting–” Alec starts, but Tom shakes his head, cutting him off.

“I really need to talk to you.”

Raising his eyebrows, Alec closes the door and follows him silently.

Tom marvels at the apartment as he crosses the walnut floor into the open plan lounge, eyes drifting around the massive open plan kitchen and lounge. Brilliant white walls and wooden floors, furnished throughout in a slick combination of leather, chrome and expensive hardwoods, this place is a little slice heaven. Nothing like his crowded bedsit, but he supposes that’s the difference between the salary of a technician and that of a seasoned professional.

Lowering the music with a dial on the wall, Alec steps back around the counter to his meal. “I was just about to eat,” he says, motioning towards the dish. “There’s enough, if you’re hungry.”

“Not really. Thank you, though.”

“Are you sure? I’m not your boss here, Thomas.”

Tom smiles faintly, hovering in the middle of the floor, unsure where to put himself. He feels out of place, like even his grotty old sneakers are offending the expensive apartment just by walking on its floors. “You can call me Tom, in that case. Only the Sarge calls me Thomas.”

“Oh,” Alec says, apologetically. “I didn’t realise.”

Plating up his meal, he carries it over to the table and sets it down beside the files, motioning for Tom to join him. 

Sitting opposite one another, Alec can’t avoid feeling a little guilty as he eats, the redhead watching him with that miserable expression. He wonders helplessly if it’s physical pain putting that look on his assistants face, or something else.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asks, clearing his throat as he swallows a mouthful of succulent steak. It’s delicious, but at least a little of the enjoyment is sucked out of it by the fact he’s being watched by his crestfallen colleague.

“Uh,” Tom starts awkwardly, averting his eyes but struggling to find something else to focus on. “Josh. How is he? No one will tell me anything.”

Alec frowns deeply, pushing his food around his plate. “They’ve taken some… ‘precautionary’ measures. They don’t want another incident,” he says hesitantly, cringing inwardly as he listens to himself. The young man in front of him deserves a better explanation than that, really. “You know you shouldn’t call the subject by that name, Thomas. Tom.”

“Why not?” the redhead mumbles, wrapping his arms around himself. Alec notes how vulnerable he looks now, out of his shirt and lab coat. It’s usually easy to forget all the men working in the FISCO labs are regular people, but with his assistant before him, clad in an old black hoodie and jeans, normally neat hair hanging wildly around his damaged face, it’s impossible to avoid. “He’s just a kid, Doc. He’s scared, and he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. I look at him and think, that could be me in that cell. It could. I wouldn’t want people calling me ‘it’.”

His frown deepening, Alec stares down at his plate. He knows it’s not fair, but life rarely is. “We can’t get attached. That’s the pain of this path we’ve both chosen for ourselves, I’m afraid. It’s likely they’ll terminate the subject when he’s served his purpose and that’ll be the end of it.”

A little harsh perhaps, but completely true. He sighs heavily as his response is met with silence across the table. Slicing off a small piece of his steak, he pushes it onto his fork with a few vegetables and offers it over to Tom, holding it before his lips. “You should try it, it’s good.”

Meeting his eyes, Tom pulls his lips tight, trying to read his mind. With a slow exhale, he opens his mouth, letting Alec feed him the forkful. It really is good.

"I'm know it's not my place," Tom says, through his mouthful. He catches a drop of steak sauce as it threatens to drip down his chin and curses himself for being so ineloquent. It's painful to chew - the hospital has had him on liquid food - but he doesn't want to offend his coworker. Even if the food is grating against the open sores inside his mouth. "That's why they're kicking me off the project isn't it? Because I won't step down."

"Oh?" Alec chuckles lightly. "They can't kick you off the project that easily, Thomas. It's not their choice, it's mine."

The steak sticks in his teeth a little and Tom can't avoid grimacing this time, hand coming to his cheeks again. He swallows hard, forcing the food down his throat and spluttering a little. "I didn't think you… had that authority. As like, a contractor, I mean." He winces, squeezing his eyes shut. "Sorry."

The stitches tug at his cheek, a few pinpricks of blood emerging from the swollen skin. Alec examines the injury across the table, concern masking his face. The hospital have done a good job of repairing the bite mark, but it'll be a long while before they can get a real idea of the permanent damage to his assistant's handsome young face. He places his knife and fork delicately down on his plate and gets up.

With a gentle hand under Tom's chin, Alec lifts his head to get a closer look at the injury. Tom meets his gaze, his big doe eyes full of timid curiosity. For a moment, their matched gazes linger on one another.

"Dr Neilson?"

"Alec, please. As I said, I'm not your boss here."

Reaching his thumb up, he brushes across the stitches with a feather light touch. Tom recoils just a little, but it's enough to bother Alec. He feels so responsible for the younger man, as he supposes he would for any of his assistants if they were to get hurt under his care.

"Have they given you anything to put on these?" He asks, dropping his hand, a smear of red left on his thumb.

"Yeah. Uh, a prescription," Tom says, turning to look elsewhere. He doesn't want to think about how grotesque he must look. "I haven't picked it up yet."

"They need treating," Alec says decisively, picking up his plate and dumping it on the kitchen side before hurrying off down the next hallway.

 

\--- 

 

With ragged breath, Mike takes the corner at the end of the long, groaning corridor too slow, brushing the wall as he swings through the doorframe. He stumbles through the rubble, but manages to find his footing again as he takes off down the next dark stretch of hallway, breath ragged with fear as he dares look back over his shoulder. 

The black shape is still hovering behind him, always in his peripheral vision, keeping up his pace no matter how quickly he moves. Squeezing his eyes shut, he slams into the next door with both palms outstretched, bruised body crashing into it as he finds it locked.

“No! Let me in!”

He smashes against it with his shoulder, throwing the full weight of his body onto the door and being rewarded by the wood start to splinter around the lock. Not quick enough. Manically, he twists the handle, opening his mouth to scream as the creature closes in on him.

“Get away from me! Get the fuck away from me!”

He can see it clearly now, a hulking, bony creature with elongated limbs, not unlike the Wendigo, but with smooth alabaster skin, shining like it’s made of solid rock. There’s something disturbingly human about the shape of its body, its limbs, but the similarities end there; it appears to be shrouded in shadows, like it’s swallowing the light around it. It has a nearly featureless skull with skin stretched over the structure of its bones; deep, hollow eye sockets and a gaping mouth that seem to stretch into the depths of hell, filled with what looks like hundreds of teeth, minuscule but razor sharp. It produces a rasping hiss as it shrouds him in its preternatural darkness, the shadows finding their way around his body and chilling him to the core. It seems to be sizing him up, smelling him almost, though it physically lacks the components to do so.

All he can hear is its disgusting breathing mixed with the sound of his own screaming. His heartbeat pumps in his ears, making his head spin. Staring it in it’s eyeless face, Mike falls silent, the panic causing his whole body to tremble.

Shaking his head in horrified disbelief, Mike’s breath hitches as fumbles for the revolver on his belt and raises his loaded gun to the creatures face. He edges the muzzle forwards, tand it seems to follow his movements, though it surely cannot see. With the barrel positioned inside its mouth, he squeezes gently on the trigger – but before he can take the shot, the monster releases a hideous shriek that fills the corridor like a reverberating siren and Mike feels it all dragged away from him, sucked from his mind like his soul is being ripped from his body.

He wakes with a soundless scream, cold sweat pouring down his face, soaking through his shirt. Shepherd barks furiously at him from the end of the bed with both front paws up on the mattress like he’s poised to attack. He must have been tossing furiously in his sleep.

For a second as he blinks Mike swears he sees the heinous creature hovering there in the corner of the room, but a second look reveals nothing but the cheap motel furniture around him, and nothing to fear but his own mind. His face creases in a deep grimace and he rubs the palm of his hand over his damp face. The nightmare has visited him two nights in a row, and he’s sure it’ll come again next time he drifts off. As shaken as he is, it’s still a welcome change to the constant replays of Blackwood Mountain.

“Shhh, Shep. C’mere,” he calls softly to the dog.

The Alsatian climbs onto the bed with a whimper and he buries his face in its soft fur, arms tight around its neck. He clings to the dog for several minutes in complete silence, taking comfort in the fact he doesn’t have to be alone.

A quick check of the clock brings a sigh of relief; he’s slept long enough for the reception to be manned and he’ll be able to check out and hit the road again in no time.

 

Crossing the parking lot with Shepherd on his leash, Mike hurls his rucksack back into the jeep and grabs the dog’s bowls, setting them up on the tarmac to feed him. Whilst the Alsatian eats, he unfolds his road map on the hood of the vehicle and retrieves the tattered napkin from his coat pocket, checking on his progress.

The address Dana gave him is less than a hundred miles now; he’ll be there by half past nine. With little to do on the drive but deliberate his destination Mike’s changed his mind several times as he heads North, wondering what else Colorado could offer him besides a logging job fit for criminals and delinquents. He’s never had so much choice in his life. He has no plan and no aspirations; Blackwood took them from him just like it took so much else. He’s going to at least meet with Dana’s brother, he’s decided; after forty-eight hours of speaking to no one but motel receptionists, he’s feeling a serious lack of human contact.

Whatever had John Bright so riled up about his son can’t possibly be worse than anything else Mike’s experienced lately.

 

\---

 

“This is going to sting a little.”

Alec hovers over his patient, his experienced fingers wobbling ever so slightly as he gently begins to pick the stitches out of the younger man’s face. He can see the pain in Tom’s eyes, but the redhead doesn’t make a sound, lips drawn tight together as he lets Alec work.

“What makes you so sure they’re kicking you off the project?” He says as he slowly removes the first short thread from the wound. The angry, swollen skin starts to sweat droplets of blood but he’s quick to catch them on a tissue.

Tom swings his legs a little, dangling off the edge of the dining table. He waits for Alec to stop touching his face before he dares open his mouth to respond. 

“They’re avoiding telling me anything about it. Fisher says he wants me to rest, you know. Not think about it for now. But I don’t want to do that.”

“And if it was up to you?”

“I’d already be back in the lab. With J–” he pauses, swallows the word. “With the subject.”

Alec realizes his advice is a waste of time, because his young assistant is already attached to their specimen. It’ll surely be his downfall, perhaps not now, but during some future assignment, and only getting his face mauled will feel like a pleasant memory. Still, as he removes the rest of the stitches one by one, Alec feels a proportionate amount of pity and guilt and it’s not in his nature to ignore his emotions completely.

“The Washington kid is dangerous,” he warns, because it feels important to do so at least one more time. “But you certainly have connected with him. Look, it’s my choice to have you involved with this and if you’re positive you’re still onboard, I will pull the necessary strings to keep you.”

Squeezing some antiseptic cream onto his gloved fingers, Alec begins to dab it gently into the lesions. It smarts for a moment and Tom sucks a sharp breath in through his teeth, but the pain subsides quickly into cool relief. He smiles lopsidedly at the doctor. “If you could do that, I’d be so grateful. This project is my life.”

“I know that,” Alec chuckles, smiling fondly back at his patient as he threads tapered needle, preparing to close the wounds as soon as they’ve gone completely numb.

“Did you know there are over 60 recorded incidents of wendigo-related killings in the FISCO archives, but not a single instance in which an agent has encountered one of the creatures?”

“I thought we had agreed that we weren’t identifying the subject yet, Thomas.”

Tom shrugs, bracing himself for more pain as Alec begins to close his wounds again, but the cream has done the trick. He barely feels a pinprick as the needle slips through the skin. “Come on, Alec. What else could it be? I’ve watched all the police interviews from Blackwood. No one wants to say it out loud because we haven’t got any proof but it’s pretty obvious.”

His boss’ given name feels alien on his tongue, but there’s barely a person in the bureau that isn’t Tom’s superior. It’s nice to talk to someone like a friend.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to make the judgment,” Alec teases, nudging his cheek. He sutures the wounds neatly and efficiently, using a Cushing stitch in hope it will leave less visible surface damage when it’s healed. Tying off the final thread, he draws back and looks Tom dead in the eye. “Wendigo bites are supposed to be infectious.”

“We know that’s not true,” Tom laughs weakly. He goes to touch his face, but Alec gently knocks his hand away. “Josh is not a proper wendigo, anyway. Not according to the reports.”

Peeling off his gloves, Alec tidies his first aid kit away quickly. He’s surprised to hear the redhead open up about his thoughts on the project, because Tom keeps to himself most days, and Alec only sees his enthusiasm when he’s watching unbeknownst. “So I can safely assume you have a theory? Would you allow me to hear it?”

“Not a theory, really. But I’ve been reading a fair amount of folklore and it always talks about the Wendigo curse as a possession, right?”

“Sure.”

“But we’re not studying it like that,” Tom sighs in frustration. He slides off the table, following Alec across the room as he returns to the kitchenette. “Every experiment I’ve taken part in so far has been akin to viral research.”

Alec allows him his frustrations, washing his hands as he listens, before getting out a couple of wine glasses and setting them on the side.

“Drink?” he offers, plucking his decanter from the shelf and pouring two glasses without waiting for an answer.

“Sure,” Tom shrugs, taking it gratefully. It smells expensive, although he knows almost nothing about wine.

Inhaling deeply, Alec swashes the Claret around before taking a sip. It’s ageing nicely. “The problem is that we know very little about the science of possession. It’s quite hard to carry out tests with no prior research in place. But go on.”

Tom takes a mouthful before he goes on, enjoying the tingle on his tongue. It’s delicious, like the steak, like he’s sure anything that comes out of Nielson’s kitchen would be. “Well, maybe we don’t. But then there are surely other things we don’t understand that could, you know, aid us in this situation? We know Joshua doesn’t match the descriptions of other wendigo on record. Perhaps he’s only, half wendigo? And still half human. I’ve talked with him. Did you know that? He can talk.”

Alec listens intently, deciding he likes the way Tom’s eyes light up when he really gets talking. He’s looking at a man who’s spent too long being told to keep quiet, keep his thoughts to himself. Tom is a talented, thoughtful individual who simply needs to be tended to like garden, nurtured until he blooms. Alec thinks that perhaps he could be the person to do that, if Tom will let him. 

“I’ve watched you,” he admits. “Quite a talent, encouraging that out of him.”

Tom goes a little red then, taking another big mouthful of his wine; he didn’t realize anyone had seen him talking to Josh, trying to find time for it only when he’s alone. The other technicians had already begun calling him a madman for spending so much time with their specimen, and it would only get worse from here if he kept going, considering his injuries.

“I just think we’re dismissing the possibility that he could be saved. If he’s possessed, can’t he be… exorcised?”

Sighing heavily, Alec takes a few slow sips of his drink as he contemplates the question. When he looks up, his eyes meet Tom’s as the younger man stares at him expectantly, his expression pained.

“Can’t we at least try? Don’t we owe Josh that, at least? He’s just a kid. He’s just like me,” Tom adds dejectedly. 

Reaching out, Alec tenderly brushes Tom’s wild red hair away from his face, resting his hand against his uninjured cheek. The younger man makes no attempt at moving away from the contact. For a long moment of silence, Alec studies his face, gazing fixedly into his eyes as he contemplates why Thomas is so preoccupied with this. Perhaps he’s simply just that compassionate a person, but Alec suspects not. He wants to ask; what trauma of Tom’s past makes this case so important? Personally, he wouldn’t let himself think about it enough to let it bother him – Josh Washington needs to be regarded as just another animal. He’s tested on all sorts of live subjects, from rats to big cats; if he wanted to take a moral stand on the matter, he was in the wrong business.

But Tom has a point, and Alec knows he’s not going to be able to brush it off so easily now he’s had to face it. Perhaps the subject deserves a better ending than the one FISCO have got planned for him. 

Letting his hand fall back into his lap, Alec offers a faint smile of encouragement. “Drink up,” he says, following his own advice before he goes on. “Whatever we do with him, I want you on that research team.”

He has to be, Alec thinks grimly, because Thomas might just be the only thing standing between Josh Washington and his impending death.

\---

New Pine Creek is smaller than Sam expected. It turns out the ‘local’ sheriff station and the hospital where Harriett Tasker was treated for her injuries aren’t even in the town, which has less than a dozen residential streets and fifteen shops along its main street. It lends itself to their investigation, because it’s not hard to identify the only area the Tasker family could reside in. There’s only one road with woods behind it, most of the town surrounded by shrub land and water. Even calling it woodland is a long stretch of the word; more of a small area of local trees left unmaintained.

As they pull up to the curb, car facing the dirt track at the end of the road, Chris tenses up visibly in the passenger seat. Sam picks up the camera, pointing it at him before she speaks.

“So tell me. What’s got your goat, Christopher?”

“What do you think?” Chris laughs nervously. “Aren’t you nervous at all? We’re about to get eaten alive by some Native American lion creature in some backwater town in Oregon that no one has ever heard of.”

Sam sniffs in amusement. “That’s the worst case scenario, my friend.”

“No one’s ever going to find our bodies. You realise that? Our remains are going to end up in some cave somewhere being picked at by rats.”

“Isn’t that exciting?”

Chris is not convinced, but he unbuckles his seatbelt and starts to dig through his rucksack. “And the best case scenario is what? We find nothing, go home empty handed, back at square one.”

“The best case scenario,” Sam says, turning the camera back on herself and speaking straight to it. “Is that we find the Wampus and we get a bunch of footage of it. Then we put it down so it can’t hurt anyone else.”

“I thought you were a pacifist,” Chris snickers in disbelief. He pulls a small revolver from his backpack and checks that it’s loaded. “But I’m not going to argue with that.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at the gun. “I didn’t expect you to bring that.”

“Borrowed it from my dad. I don’t want to use it, but I’m not going monster hunting unarmed. This isn't a joke, Sammy."

"I know it's not. You know what is a joke?" She teases. "The idea that you think you can take down some sort of monster mountain lion with a six shot pistol."

"It's all I could get my hands on!"

"Good thing I've got a rifle in my bag."

Chris pulls a face at the thought. At least they’re both taking the trip seriously enough to bring something to defend themselves; it reassures him a little that this might not go so horribly wrong. "Again. I thought you were a pacifist."

"It's my dad's!" She protests, getting out of the car. Chris tags after her, following her round to the trunk and popping it open as she talks. "He's been trying to get me to go hunting for years. Obviously I didn't go. I was a pacifist. But that was before I was forced to kill cannibal spider people with a spade. Things are different now."

Sam unzips the duffel bag and sure enough, there's a rifle case inside. Both of them stare down at it, a little daunted by it's presence, because it's impossible to pretend that they're playing around when they're carrying something so deadly. Chris can tell from the length of the case that it can't be assembled; they'll have to do that themselves.

"Tell me know how to use that thing."

She eyes him sheepishly. "Can't be that hard, right?"

"That fills me with confidence. Maybe you should have brought a spade."

Heading up the path into the wilderness, Sam can tell how hesitant her friend is. There's a lot at stake for him, she knows that, because if he doesn't make it home he's leaving a hell of a lot more people behind than she is. She allows herself a moment to think about her dad and how he'd cope without her. It's been the two of them against the world since she was six years old and he's the reason she's even brave enough to attempt something like this. Her dad is a tough nut. She's sure he'd be fine - probably even look for her.

Maybe never stop looking. 

When she'd first come home after the mountain, he'd been waiting for her at the airport and they'd embraced like the world was ending. It was the first time since they were rescued that Sam had allowed herself to cry, burying her face deep into his shoulder so that she wouldn’t draw anyone’s attention. They wouldn’t have cared, but she was trying to hold it together for the others whilst they all seemed to fall apart. Her father had stroked her hair and let her cry it out for as long as she needed, even holding her hand all the way home in the car. In that moment, she’d been that six-year-old girl again, wailing for her mother after the accident. Pining for a life that would never be the same again.

It puts dread in her heart to think back on that first year after her mother died, how the two of them banded together and somehow got through, and she realizes there’s a lot at stake for her too. Sam can’t waltz into this with reckless abandon; she needs her head in the game. With renewed resolve, she nudges Chris gently, hoping to spread a little of her boldness his way.

“Camera or rifle? One of us has got to document the action.” 

“You think I know how to use that thing?”

“I saw you with that shotgun at the cable car station,” Sam challenges him, holding the rifle case out suggestively. “You gun-toting heartthrob, you.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Samantha,” Chris says with a smirk. He takes it anyway, feeling the weight of it in his hand uncomfortably. “I suppose I can be a man about it, but I’m warning you. Shotgun is easy. Point, click, double boom.”

“Great, you know the basics already,” she pokes at him, flipping the camera open and turning her attention to the trees around them. They’re in Wampus territory now. It’ll pay off to be aware of their surroundings. “Where do you think it happened?”

Chris’ face turns serious as he scans the small forest, glancing down the row of backyards leading right out into the trees. “One of those must be the Tasker place. Let’s take a look around.”

Scouting around the area, it becomes obvious relatively quickly that plenty of people cross the land they’re investigating like it’s nothing. Sam is almost disappointed, secretly wishing the area had been more barren and dangerous; hoping they might have found a set of paw prints to follow in the dirt, or a tuft of fur on a tree trunk that would lead them towards their mysterious creature. Instead they find a littering of boot tracks, empty beer cans and barbeque pits, telltale burn marks circling piles of exhausted coals and wood.

“Looks like the residents of Pine Creek enjoy a few recreational drunken cook outs on their monster-ridden land,” Chris tutts, nudging an empty Blue Ribbon can mindlessly with his foot. “I sure hope you’re getting this on camera.”

Sam mutters grumpily, but her tune quickly changes.

“Chris,” she hisses, pointing the camcorder in the direction of her discovery. “This is it. It’s got to be.”

His eyes follow her hand to the trees ahead of them, and Chris clocks what Sam’s on about quickly. Flapping in the gentle breeze, a piece of police tape hangs forgotten from the trunk of a slender ash tree, marking the spot where the official investigation took place.

“They’re long gone,” Chris notes as he approaches the area. “I guess ‘still looking for the killer cat’ is not the same as ‘still investigating the death of a nine-year-old boy’ right?”

Sam shrugs disappointedly. “They think it’s a wild cat. Case closed, I guess.”

There’s very little to be uncovered at the scene, likely turned over a few times by the local police before being abandoned all together. At the foot of one of the large trees is a small vigil to the child that lost his life, a spread of half-burned candles and wilting flowers, and a few loose photographs half buried in the leaf litter. Chris and Sam stay quiet as they contemplate it, exchanging nothing but a silent glance. Sam crouches, putting the camera down on the ground beside her and digging through her rucksack until she finds a pack of matches among her supplies.

She strikes one, sheltering the flame with her hand and watching it burn for a moment before she starts to light the candles. Chris sighs, putting the rifle down and kneeling down next to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“We should have done something like this for Josh,” She says sadly, biting her lip as a wave of unexpected emotion hits her. “We did it for Hannah and Beth.”

“At least we’ve got the funeral,” Chris replies hopelessly, but even as he says it he knows it’s not enough, not for him, or Sam, or anyone. He chokes on the thought, his next words coming out strained as his mind wanders back to those unwatched videos on his computer. “We’ll do something. We’ll put together some sort of tribute, something fitting. It’s the least we can do.”  
Nodding solemnly, Sam picks up one of the smaller photographs of Ryan and dusts it off, taking a better look. The young boy is grinning wildly, with unbrushed blonde hair and blue eyes bright with the innocence of his youth, like the picture was snapped just as a great joke was told for the first time in his young life. A grim smile tugs at her lips and she runs her thumb over the image before standing up and slipping it into her jacket pocket.

Chris doesn’t question it; she’ll do what she needs to.

“Let’s go,” she says decisively. “We’re looking in the wrong place, I think. No animal would stick around at the scene if there were police crawling all over it. Maybe it’s got a den somewhere.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Chris shrugs, trying to keep her spirits up. In reality, he knows neither of them is equipped for what they’re trying to do. They have no experience in hunting or tracking animals, and not the first clue where wild cats live, or if they can even treat this creature like it is one. They’re better off doing more research, safe and warm at home.

But it’s too late for that, because they’re here now – they may as well try their best. There’s got to be something they can do.

As they traipse back out of the trees, Sam’s head hanging slightly in defeat, Chris casts a glance around the neighbourhood. The houses are quaint compared to L.A; they remind him of some of the vacations his family took him on to New England as a child, where the roads wound endlessly through thick autumnal forests and tiny communities of colorful houses dotted around the edges of vast lakes. It’s serene really, almost beautiful – hard to imagine how terribly the death of a child would have shaken such a small town. Death is such regular news in their big city that it rarely gets reported. A grim thought.

A bright red pick-up pulls into the dirt drive of one of the larger houses, a two-story building clad in white clapboard, with a long porch and green roof; as picturesque as any movie set, it’s hard for Chris to believe places like this really exist in America. As he watches, the car doors open and a young couple get out – mid-thirties perhaps – the husband a tall and broad blonde man, the wife petite and modestly dressed, with a crop of red hair tied loosely at the base of her neck.

It could be him and Ashley, Chris thinks idly. Give it fifteen years; give them a chance to overcome their fears and their nightmares. He wonders if she’d like a house like this one, because he can picture them in one. The smell of fresh bread spilling from the kitchen, framed photographs hanging on every wall, and the two of them curled up on the porch with a cup of coffee on blustery fall mornings. His mother would be so happy for him.

The husband opens the rear passenger door and the wife reaches inside, helping the young girl inside to get out of the car. She struggles for her footing as she climbs down, clinging to her mother’s arms for support until she’s on solid ground. Her strawberry blonde hair hangs around her face, but her mother brushes it back gently, stroking her hand over her head comfortingly.

There’s something wrong with her face. Chris narrows his eyes, lifting his glasses so he can see further.

Her lips are swollen, and he can see violent marks down the side of her face and neck. At first his heart clenches in his chest, panic setting in that he’s seeing something he needs to report, but then it hits him.

“Sam,” he hisses, grabbing her arm and pulling her close to him. “That’s Harriett Tasker.”

Sam glances around, surprised look plastered on her face. When she clocks them, she turns back to Chris, muttering under her breath. “Oh my god. Do you think we should talk to her?”

“Keep walking,” Chris orders, putting his arm around her and guiding her away towards his own car. He chances another glance over his shoulder inside to see Harriett’s father pick her up and carry her into the house.

“Have you got an idea?” Sam asks in a hushed voice.

Chris smirks a little. “You better believe it. In the car, quick.”

The trip won’t be wasted after all.


End file.
